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The  Lonely  Warrior 


BY 

CLAUDE  C.  WASHBURN 

AUTHOR  OF  "ORDER,"  "GERALD  NORTHROP," 
"PAGES  FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  PARIS " 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ22,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE  AND  COMPANY,    INC 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U     8     A.   BY 

THE    QUINN    a    BODEN   COMPANY 

RAHWAY      N.    J 


The  Lonely  Warrior 


PROLOGUE 


2138S83 


ON  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  of  November,  1914, 
Edward  Carroll  was  sitting  as  usual  in  his  pleasant  inner 
office,  the  windows  of  which  looked  down  upon  the  middle- 
western  city  where  Mr.  Carroll  had  lived  for  forty  of  his 
fifty-six  years.  But  he  was  not  behaving  quite  as  usual.  At 
this  hour  he  should  normally  have  been  conferring  with  other 
men  upon  matters  of  importance — matters  concerning  the 
cement  works  of  which  he  was  vice-president,  or  the  bank 
of  which  he  was  a  director,  or  the  copper  mines  whose 
policy  he  principally  determined.  Or  he  should,  at  the  very 
least,  have  been  dictating  replies  to  half  a  dozen  important 
letters  that  had  been  placed  on  his  desk  while  he  was  out 
at  luncheon.  Instead,  Mr.  Carroll  merely  sat  in  his  chair 
and  stared  oddly  at  a  calendar  on  the  wall  opposite,  as 
though  its  large  black  announcement  of  the  date  had  some 
deep  significance  for  him,  as  perhaps  it  had. 

At  last  he  shook  his  head  impatiently  and  with  a  quick 
gesture  pressed  a  button  in  his  desk.  Almost  at  once  his 
stenographer  entered  the  room. 

"Ruth,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  "did  you  tell  me  a  little  while 
ago  that  some  one  was  waiting  to  see  me  ?" 

A  faint  surprise  showed  in  the  young  woman's  composed 
face,  but  she  answered  the  question  quietly.  "Yes,  sir. 
Mr.  Barnett  and  Mr.  King." 

"Well,  they'll  have  to  wait  a  little  or  come  some  other 
time.  I  must  see  Stacey  first.  He  telephoned  that  he'd  be 
here  at  three  o'clock.  It's  three-five  now,"  Mr.  Carroll  ob- 

3 


4  The  Lonely  Warrior 

served,  drawing  out  his  watch ;  which  was  quite  unnecessary, 
since  on  the  table  before  his  eyes  stood  a  small,  perfectly 
regulated  clock  encased  in  thick  curved  glass  that  magni- 
fied its  hands  and  characters  conveniently.  "When  he 
comes  send  him  in  at  once,"  he  concluded. 

But  the  stenographer  had  scarcely  left  the  room  when 
the  door  was  opened  again  and  Stacey  appeared. 

He  was  a  tall,  handsome,  well-built,  young  man,  with 
blue  eyes,  short  brown  hair,  and  a  clear  healthy  complexion 
from  which  the  summer  tan  had  even  yet  not  quite  faded. 
He  looked,  and  was,  well-bred  and  well  educated,  but  there 
was  nothing  unusual  or  distinguished  in  any  of  his  features, 
except  perhaps  in  his  mouth,  which  was  finely  modelled 
and  sensitive  without  being  self-conscious.  The  only  thing 
at  all  out  of  the  common  about  him  was  the  impression  he 
gave  of  restless  but  happy  eagerness,  of  being  fresh  and 
untired  and  curious.  He  appeared  about  twenty-six  or 
seven  years  old. 

"Sit  down,  Stacey,"  said  Mr.  Carroll.  "You  wanted  to 
see  me  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  and  took  the  chair  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  desk. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  while  the  two  gazed  across  at 
each  other.  Neither  could  consider  the  other  with  cool 
detached  estimation, — years  of  familiarity  were  in  the 
way ;  yet  Stacey  felt  dimly  that  he  was  nearer  to  being  out- 
side than  he  could  remember  to  have  been  before.  He 
studied  his  father's  well-shaped  head,  with  its  thick  gray 
hair,  clipped  moustache  and  firm  mouth,  in  something  of 
the  spirit  in  which,  being  an  architect,  he  would  have 
studied  a  building.  He  saw  his  father  to-day,  quite  clearly, 
as  a  man  of  tremendous,  never  wasted  energy,  and  with  a 
warm,  generous,  unspoiled  heart.  But  it  came  over  Stacey 
for  the  first  time  that  the  same  directness  which  made  his 


The  Lonely  Warrior  5 

father  go  so  unerringly  to  the  point  in  business  matters, 
discarding  all  non-essentials,  made  him  inclined  to  hold 
very  positive  over-simplified  opinions  about  things  in 
general.  Whereupon,  all  in  this  half-minute  of  silence,  it 
also  occurred  to  Stacey  that  business  was  like  mathematics, 
founded  on  definite  preassumed  principles  that  you  were 
always  sure  of,  whereas  those — Stacey  supposed  they  were 
there — beneath  life  seemed  a  trifle  wavering  and  indeter- 
minate. 

"Well,  son,  what  was  it  ?"  asked  Mr.  Carroll. 

"You  know,  father,"  Stacey  replied. 

The  older  man  pushed  back  his  chair  impatiently,  and  his 
face  took  on  an  almost  querulous  expression  that  set  small 
uncharacteristic  wrinkles  to  interfering  oddly  with  its 
firm,  deeply  traced  lines. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  know  what  it  is,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  make  me  state  it.  You  want  to  go  to 
the  war,  and  you  have  an  answer  ready  to  every  objection  I 
can  make.  Damn  it  all,  Stacey!  It  isn't  our  war!  If  it 
becomes  so  I'll  be  the  first  to  say:  'Enlist!'  but  it  isn't — 
not  yet,  anyway." 

"You  know  you  think  it  ought  to  be,  father,"  replied  the 
young  man  steadily.  "I've  heard  you  say  so  a  score  of 
times.  Every  one  with  any  generosity  whom  we  know 
thinks  it  ought  to  be.  I  only  want  to  live  up  to  that  con- 
viction. I  believe  it's  right  against  wrong,  the — the — soul 
against  the  machine;  and  so  do  you,  or  you  wouldn't  have 
given  so  generously  to  Belgium." 

His  father  did  not  seem  to  be  listening.  He  was  staring 
away  over  his  son's  head  almost  dreamily.  "I  remember 
when  I  built  a  play-house  for  you  and  Julie  back  of  the 
stable.  You  were  six  years  old  and  tried  to  carry  two-by- 
fours  to  me.  You  didn't  succeed." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  his  son  again. 


6  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Stacey,"  he  went  on,  "I  sent  you  to  school  and  college 
for  nine  years,  and  then  for  two  years  all  over  Europe,  and 
then  for  three  years  to  the  Beaux  Arts  in  Paris.  It's  taken 
—how  old  are  you?" 

"Thirty." 

"You  don't  look  it.  It's  taken  thirty  careful  years  to 
educate  you.  You're  an  expensive  instrument  ready  for 
use.  Are  you  going  to  throw  all  that  away  to  do  what 
some  untrained  laborer  can  do  as  well — no,  better  than 
you?  Are  all  those  years  of  training  going  to  be  to  fit 
you  for  no  other  service  than  to — to  stop  a  machine-gun 
bullet?" 

"They  ought  not  to  be,  father,"  said  the  young  man. 
"They  wouldn't  be  in  a  normal  world.  They  were  given 
me  in  a  normal  world  for  use  in  a  normal  world.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  the  normal  world  has  been  upset.  It's  been, 
wickedly  assailed,  wiped  out  for  the  moment,  by  the 
greatest  crime  in  history.  It's  up  to  every  one  of  us  to 
help  bring  it  back.  And  all  over  Europe  better  men  than 
I,  men  equally  well  educated,  have  given  themselves  freely 
' — poets,  painters,  thinkers, — and  trained  business-men,"  he 
added  hastily. 

However,  it  did  not  for  an  instant  occur  to  Stacey  to 
question  the  justice  of  his  father's  argument.  It  seemed 
to  him  the  only  considerable  argument  against  his  going 
to  war,  and  he  again  respectfully  recognized  his  father's 
ability  to  go  straight  to  the  essential  point. 

"But  you  see,  sir,"  he  said,  "that,  true  as  your  conten- 
tion is  for  the  world  as  it  was — and  isn't,  it  doesn't  hold 
good  now.  For  it  would  be  equally  true  if  America  were 
in  the  war,  yet  then  you  would,  as  you  said,  be  the  first  to 
want  me  to  go." 

"But—" 

"I   know.     America   isn't  in  the  war — yet;  but  every 


The  Lonely  Warrior  7 

single  trivial  example  like  mine  will  help,  just  a  little,  to 
bring  her  in." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"What  about  me,  Stacey?"  Mr.  Carroll  asked  at  last. 

The  young  man  gazed  at  his  father  sadly.  "I  know,"  he 
said.  "It's  horrible.  But  all  over  the  world  it's  going  on. 
The  same  question's  being  asked — and  set  aside — in 
thousands  and  thousands  of  families.  And — though  it 
isn't  adequate  compensation — you  still  at  least  have  your 
work ;  which  is  more  than  wives  and  mothers  have." 

At  this  Mr.  Carroll  pushed  his  chair  back  sharply.  "My 
work!"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  "Who's  it  for?  For  you, 
every  bit  of  it !  For  you  and  Julie." 

After  all,  Stacey  was  young  and  had  a  sense  of  the 
ridiculous;  so  laughter  surged  up  within  him  now  and, 
though  he  kept  it  silent,  relieved  his  tensity.  For  he  was 
earning  a  respectable  salary  from  the  firm  of  architects 
in  which  he  would  soon  have  a  junior  partnership,  and  his 
father  had  long  since  given  him  two-hundred-thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  excellent  municipal  and  industrial  bonds, 
some  bearing  five,  some  five-and-a-half  per  cent. ;  while,  as 
for  his  sister  Julie,  she  not  only  had  a  strictly  equal  private 
fortune,  but  was  also  comfortably  married  to  a  prosperous 
young  lawyer.  But,  knowing  his  father,  and  knowing  him 
better  than  usual  to-day,  Stacey  carefully  kept  his  amuse- 
ment to  himself. 

It  vanished  anyway  when  his  father  added:  "And 
Marian  ?" — and  Stacey  winced. 

"I  haven't  told  her  yet.  I'm  going  to  tell  her  to-night," 
he  said,  a  little  hoarsely.  "It'll  almost  break  her  heart,  I'm 
afraid.  All  the  Marians  in  the  world  are  having  their 
hearts  broken  to-day." 

"And  all  the  fathers  and  mothers.  I  could  pretty  nearly 
say :  'Thank  God  your  mother  is  not  living !' " 


8  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey  nodded  grave  assent.  "The  individual's  gone  by 
the  board."  After  which  silence  fell  upon  both  men. 

At  last  the  older  man  drew  himself  together.  "What 
army?"  he  asked.  "The  French?" 

"No,  I  thought  of  that,  since  I  speak  French  decently," 
said  his  son  briskly,  glad  of  the  change  in  mood.  "But  I 
rather  think — though  I'm  not  sure — that  I'd  have  to  join 
the  Foreign  Legion  there.  And  sacrifice  is  all  very  well, 
you  know,  but  it  needn't  be  suicide.  I  mean  to  come  back 
alive  if  I  can  do  so  honorably.  And  of  course  I've  thought 
of  the  Canadian  army.  But  there's  too  much  neighborly 
dislike  between  Canadians  and  Americans.  So  I'm  going 
into  the  English  army,  if  they'll  take  me.  I've  a  lot  of 
friends  in  England,  you  know.  I've  visited  some  of  them 
at  their  homes.  They'll  all  be  in  as  officers.  Perhaps  I 
can  get  into  some  regiment  where  I'll  be  under  one  of 
them." 

"And  you  leave  ?" 

"Next  Wednesday.  I'll  catch  the  'Mauretania.'  Don't  be 
angry  with  me,  sir,"  he  begged. 

His  father  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  replied  dully,  "I 
suppose  as  a  matter  of  fact  I'd  have  done  the  same  thing 
at  your  age." 

"It's  the  kindest  thing  you  could  say  to  me,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  He  rose.  "I  mustn't 
keep  you  any  longer  now.  The  office  is  full  of  people  wait- 
ing to  see  you.  I  say,  dad,  to-night  I — I  must  go  to  see 
Marian,  but  to-morrow  night  let's  dine  at  the  club  together 
and  have  champagne  and  then  go  to  a  show  and  be  awfully 
gay!" 

"All  right,"  said  his  father. 

They  shook  hands,  and  Stacey  departed. 

But  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  him  Mr.  Carroll 
did  not  at  once  summon  his  stenographer.  Instead,  he  sat 


The  Lonely  Warrior  9 

gazing,  as  before  Stacey's  arrival,  at  the  calendar  on  the 
wall  opposite.  At  last  he  rose,  crossed  the  room,  and  tore 
off  the  leaf — "Nov.  5."  He  folded  the  paper  once  across 
and  placed  it  carefully  in  his  pocket-book. 

Then  he  returned  to  his  chair  and  pressed  the  button  in 
his  desk. 


Stacey  Carroll  was  not  more  unusual  than  most  men, 
but  he  was  as  much  so.  The  only  difference  was  that  his 
diversity  had  been  fostered  by  his  education,  and  that  he 
was  not  ashamed  of  it,  but  clung  to  it  as  something  of 
value,  desiring  only  to  suppress  the  appearance  of  it.  He 
was  healthy  and  vigorous  mentally  as  well  as  physically, 
mixed  easily  with  his  fellows,  and  was  as  usual  on  the  sur- 
face as  were  they — on  the  surface.  But  really  he  was  un- 
usual in  being  extraordinarily  sensitive  to  impressions,  to 
whatever  was  beautiful  (provided  it  was  also  faintly  exotic) 
— in  short,  to  whatever  was  fine  and  delicate  and  fanciful. 

And  if  one  asks  how  it  came  about  that,  with  this  charac- 
teristic, he  was  content  to  live  in  the  city  of  Vernon,  which 
had  two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants,  was  situated  in 
Illinois,  was  not  very  beautiful,  and  certainly  had  no  touch 
of  the  exotic  about  it,  the  answer  is  that  he  was  not — with 
this  part  of  him.  The  part  was  not  by  any  means  the 
whole.  With  a  great  deal  of  the  rest  of  him  Stacey  very 
much  liked  living  in  Vernon.  He  liked  many  Vernon 
people,  he  liked  the  physical  comforts  of  his  existence,  and 
he  did  not  dislike  being  a  member  of  one  of  the  city's  most 
prominent  families.  He  had  a  great  capacity  for  liking  both 
people  and  things.  He  could  perceive  bad  in  them,  but 
quite  instinctively  his  mind  singled  out  and  dwelt  on  the 
good.  Moreover,  it  should  at  once  be  said  for  Vernon  that 
it  differed  from  the  average  middle-western  city  of  two 


io  The  Lonely  Warrior 

hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  Being  close  to  Chicago  it 
was  metropolitan  in  feeling ;  plays  came  to  it  and  music ;  its 
citizens — the  ones  Stacey  knew — were  sophisticated,  well 
informed,  almost  too  up-to-date ;  the  houses  that  they  built 
— often  with  Stacey's  help — were  modern  and  handsome. 
The  provincial  spirit  had  long  since  vanished  from  Vernon. 

And,  after  all,  Stacey's  very  eccentricity — his  delight  in 
what  was  wistful  and  lovely, — though  it  would  certainly 
have  been  better  satisfied  in  Paris,  was  not  altogether  starved 
in  Vernon,  as  a  love  of  classic  line  might  have  been.  Books 
and  music  fed  it;  and  where  in  the  whole  world  could  he 
have  found  more  perfect  satisfaction  of  it  than  in  Marian 
Latimer  ? 

For  the  three  years  that  he  had  known  her,  to  enter  the 
door  of  the  house  in  which  she  and  her  parents  lived  had 
been  to  him  like  crossing  the  threshold  of  fairy-land.  Out- 
side there  might  be  street-cars  and  motors  and  the  smell  of 
soft  coal;  within  there  was  charm  and  grace  and  peace — 
not  stupid  peace,  tingling  peace — and  Marian,  who  embodied 
them  all,  with  so  much  more,  and  spread  them  about  her. 

Never  until  this  evening  had  Stacey  entered  the  Latimer 
house  without  experiencing  a  sudden  sense  of  buoyancy. 
But  to-night  his  heart  was  so  heavy  that  it  seemed  to  weigh 
his  whole  body  down.  He  had  a  curious  feeling  that  he 
must  tread  carefully  or  he  would  break  something. 

In  the  narrow  Colonial  hallway  he  gave  his  coat  and  hat 
to  the  maid,  then  went  into  the  drawing-room,  which  was 
white  and  spacious,  though  the  house  was  small. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Latimer  were  there;  Marian  was  not. 
Marian  was  never  there.  She  was  always  coming  from 
somewhere  else  or  going  somewhere  else — both  in  space 
and  time.  At  least,  that  was  the  impression  she  left  lovingly 
in  Stacey.  Not  that  she  was  full  of  futile  restlessness.  It 
was  only  that  her  charm  was  the  charm  of  movement,  of 


The  Lonely  Warrior  n 

running  water,  of  a  humming-bird.  Mentally  as  well  as 
physically — oh,  far  more! — she  paused  only  at  moments 
in  her  flirtings.  You  hardly  ever  caught  her.  But  that 
made  the  rare  moment  more  precious. 

Her  parents  greeted  Stacey  with  quiet  cordiality  and 
made  him  sit  down  beside  them  in  front  of  the  open  fire 
that,  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  room,  set  reflections  glow- 
ing here  and  there  across  the  yellow  of  polished  brass  and 
the  cool  rich  surface  of  statuettes. 

"Marian  will  be  down  soon,  I've  no  doubt,"  said  her 
father,  with  a  low  laugh  at  having  said  it  so  many  times 
before. 

Stacey  considered  him,  feeling  much  the  same  apprecia- 
tion he  felt  for  Marian — only  without  the  thrill  and  the 
sense  of  enchantment. 

And,  indeed,  Mr.  Latimer  deserved  appreciation.  He  was 
slim  and  straight,  and  his  head  was  the  head  of  a  Greek 
youth  grown  old.  Curly  white  hair,  straight  nose,  short 
upper  lip, — nothing  was  wrong.  His  profile,  at  which  Stacey 
gazed  now,  was  clear  and  perfect,  like  Marian's.  Until 
three  years  ago  Mr.  Latimer  had  lived,  with  his  wife  and 
daughter,  his  books,  his  pictures,  and  his  Chinese  vases,  in 
Italy;  and  certainly  a  Florentine  villa  seemed  the  properer 
setting.  For  the  life  of  him  Stacey  could  not  understand 
why  the  Latimers  should  have  returned  to  live  in  America, 
and  of  all  places  in  America  should  have  chosen  Vernon, 
Illinois,  even  if  it  was  Mr.  Latimer's  birthplace.  But  Stacey 
was  devoutly  grateful  that  they  had  done  so.  He  rather 
thought  it  was  due  to  Mrs.  Latimer,  and  he  was  glad  to 
think  so,  since  it  gave  him  something  to  like  her  for. 

Mrs.  Latimer,  in  fact,  worried  Stacey  a  little,  because 
he  could  not  make  her  out.  She,  too,  was  handsome 
in  a  way,  but  she  seemed  to  Stacey  not  to  be  in  the  picture, 
but  aloof,  dispassionately  commenting  on  everything  and 


r'i2  The  Lonely  Warrior 

every  one,  including  himself,  her  daughter,  her  husband, 
and  her  husband's  Chinese  vases.  Stacey  recognized  honor- 
ably that  this  was  probably  only  his  fancy ;  for  Mrs.  Latimer 
never  passed  such  comment  aloud.  She  was  habitually  quiet, 
letting  others  talk ;  but  she  was  certainly  not  stupid.  Some- 
times she  would  laugh  suddenly  and  spontaneously  when 
neither  Stacey  nor  Mr.  Latimer  had  seen  anything  amusing 
until  her  laughter  caught  them  up,  and  sent  them  back  to 
look  again,  and  made  them  laugh  too,  always  appreciatively. 

"You're  grave  to-night,  Stacey,"  said  Mr.  Latimer,  turn- 
ing his  eyes  to  the  young  man's  face.  "I  suppose  it's  this 
catastrophic  war.  Of  course  it's  to  your  credit  that  you're 
capable  of  feeling  it  intensely;  the  fact  reveals  a  precious 
un-American  gift  of  imagination.  But  you're  wrong,  all 
the  same,  to  let  the  thought  of  the  war  weigh  you  down,  you 
know.  I'm  increasingly  convinced  that  each  man  has  a 
world  of  his  own  and  that  this  is  the  only  world  in  which 
he  can  profitably  live.  I'm  more  convinced  of  it  than  ever 
now  when  I  see  painters  and  philosophers  and  musicians 
dropping  their  arts  and  engaging  in  violent,  quite  futile  po- 
lemics on  something  outside  their  own  worlds.  A  painter's 
ideas  on,  say,  the  correct  method  of  building  a  sewer  are 
without  value ;  so  also  are  his  ideas  on  war.  He  wastes  his 
own  time  and  that  of  others  in  expressing  them.  To  each 
man  his  own  world.  To  you  building  noble  houses.  To 
me  collecting  vases.  Also  we  have  properly  an  outlet  for 
our  emotion  there.  We  have  no  outlet  for  emotion  con- 
cerning the  war.  That's  harmful." 

Stacey  had  listened  to  the  melodious  flow  of  Mr.  Larimer's 
words  with  a  faint  unaccustomed  irritation.  He  could  see 
no  flaw  in  the  argument;  logically  Mr.  Latimer  was  right. 
Yet,  even  if  uselessly  and  wastefully,  how  could  one  help 
abandoning  cool  logic  while  the  terrible  waves  of  the  war 
flooded  in  from  every  side?  Just  as  that  afternoon  it  had 


The  Lonely  Warrior  13 

occurred  to  Stacey  that  success  in  business  entailed  an  over- 
simplified view  of  life,  so  now  it  occurred  to  him  that  suc- 
cess in  living  entailed  too  neat  a  perfection.  Actually  the 
two  results  were  not  so  very  far  apart.  How  odd!  "Of 
course,"  he  added  to  himself,  "he  does  not  know  that  I 
have  found  an  outlet  for  my  emotion  about  the  war."  But 
Stacey  was  not  going  to  tell  Mr.  Latimer  of  this.  He  was 
going  to  tell  Marian — if  she  would  only  come. 

"It's  the  'tour  d'ivoire'  theory,  sir,"  he  said,  after  a  brief 
pause.  "I  dare  say — " 

But  fingers  brushed  his  hair  and  forehead,  and  his  words 
ceased  abruptly,  while  his  heart  gave  a  bound,  and  a  slow 
thrill  crept  over  him. 

"Marian !"  he  cried. 

But  she  was  gone  already  and  smiling  at  him  mis- 
chievously from  the  arm  of  her  father's  chair. 

"I  wonder,"  Stacey  said  appealingly  to  Mrs.  Latimer, 
"if  you'd  think  me  very  abrupt  in  asking  Marian  to  go 
up  to  the  library  with  me.  There's  something  I  want  to 
talk  over  with  her." 

Mrs.  Latimer  looked  at  the  young  man  steadily,  for  the 
first  time  since  his  entrance.  "No,"  she  said  quietly,  "do 

go." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Marian  gaily,  "whether  Marian  is  going 
to  have  anything  to  say  about  it."  But  then,  before  the 
earnestness  of  Stacey's  expression,  she  ceased  smiling  and 
led  him  away. 

Upstairs  in  the  library  she  made  him  sit  down  in  an 
easy  chair  and  perched  herself  on  an  ottoman  at  his  feet. 
She  was  admirably  quick  in  responding  to  moods  and  she 
looked  up  at  Stacey  now  with  a  tender  gravity.  He  longed 
to  stretch  out  his  hand  and  touch  her  and  draw  her  to 
him.  But  he  knew  that  if  he  did  so  she  would  slip  away 
from  him  to  become  all  motion  and  fluidity  again;  so  he 


i4  The  Lonely  Warrior 

merely  sat  and  gazed  at  her  fair  curly  hair,  her  eyes,  her 
small  mouth,  and  the  delicate  contour  of  her  cheeks,  think- 
ing her  like  a  Tanagra  come  to  life. 

"Marian  dearest,"  he  said  at  last,  "I've  made  up  my  mind 
about  something — all  alone,  without  asking  you  first,  because 
if  I'd  asked  you  I'd  have  made  it  up  wrong,  no  matter 
what  you  said.  Marian,  I'm  going  to  the  war." 

For  just  an  instant  the  girl  continued  to  gaze  up  at  him, 
clearly  not  taking  it  in.  Then  her  face  flamed  with  eager- 
ness. 

"Oh,  Stacey !"  she  cried,  her  eyes  shining.    "Oh,  Stacey !" 

But  Stacey's  heart  had  all  at  once  grown  intolerably 
heavy  with  pain. 

It  is  true  that  the  very  next  instant  Marian's  mouth 
drooped  and  she  cried:  "Oh,  Stacey!"  again  in  a  different 
lower  tone,  and  suddenly  was  in  the  young  man's  arms  and 
kissing  him  tenderly. 

But,  though  Stacey  was  made  dizzy  with  love,  the  pain 
endured.  As  long  as  he  lived,  he  felt,  he  would  remember 
that  Marian's  first  thought  had  been  that  he  was  going  to 
be  a  hero;  that  he  was  going  away  from  her  into  that 
horrid  mess  across  the  Atlantic,  perhaps  to  be  killed,  only 
her  second  thought.  This  perception  did  not  develop  into 
criticism  of  Marian.  Stacey  was  incapable  of  criticizing 
Marian.  She  was  perfect.  It  was  simply  a  wound — the 
first  the  war  inflicted  on  him. 

And  also  he  felt  dimly  that  since  this  morning  all  the 
fine  clarity  of  his  life  had  given  place  to  confusion.  His 
reaction  to  everything  was  hopelessly  different.  Through- 
out the  evening  Marian  was  prodigal  of  her  grace,  showered 
him  with  impulsive  expressions  of  affection;  yet,  instead 
of  sheer  loving  delight  in  her,  such  things  stirred  him  to 
physical  and  mental  desire,  desire  to  possess  this  girl,  body 


The  Lonely  Warrior  15 

and  soul.  He  flushed  with  shame.  He  had  never  felt  this 
way  before ;  or,  if  he  had,  he  had  not  known  it. 

When  at  last  it  was  so  late  that  Stacey  simply  must  not 
stay  longer,  Marian  accompanied  him  downstairs,  her  hand 
in  his.  They  looked  into  the  drawing-room  so  that  he  might 
say  good  night  to  her  parents,  but  the  room  was  empty. 
Only  a  single  shaded  lamp  had  been  left  burning,  and  the 
fire  on  the  hearth  was  flickering  to  ashes. 

"I  suppose  papa's  at  the  club,  and  probably  mamma  has 
gone  to  bed,"  said  the  girl,  in  the  hushed  tone  that  dark  and 
emptiness  induce. 

"It's  awfully  late,"  he  replied  remorsefully. 

She  drew  away  from  him  to  a  distant  dim  corner,  from 
which  her  face  shone  palely  like  a  white  flower  in  the 
night. 

"Stacey,"  she  called  softly,  "come  here!" 

He  obeyed,  and  all  at  once  her  slender  arms  were  about 
his  neck,  pulling  his  head  down,  her  fragrant  hair  was 
against  his  face,  and  her  lips  were  pressed  to  his  in  such 
a  willing  kiss  as  she  had  never  given  him  before.  It  left 
him  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  His  heart  beat  madly. 
He  could  not  speak. 

But  she  could.  "Now  will  you  forget  me,  Stacey?"  she 
murmured,  with  a  low  mischievous  laugh. 

Whatever  she  felt,  it  was  certainly  not  what  he  was 
feeling.  Well,  that  was  right.  He  was  glad  of  that — he 
supposed. 

In  the  hall,  however,  she  did  not  laugh.  "Oh,  Stacey," 
she  said,  "come  every  day  until  you  go !  Come  twice  a  day, 
three  times !  Come  all  day  long !" 

He  kissed  her  fingers  and  stumbled  dizzily  out  of  the 
door. 

When  he  reached  the  sidewalk  a  woman,  muffled  in  a 


1 6  The  Lonely  Warrior 

heavy  fur  coat,  came  toward  him.  "Mrs.  Latimer!"  he* 
cried  out  in  surprise,  when  she  was  close  to  him. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  alone,  Stacey,"  she  said.  "So 
when  I  heard  you  leave  the  library  I  slipped  on  a  coat  and 
came  out  here." 

Stacey  was  genuinely  touched,  but  also  apprehensive — 
as  one  always  is  toward  the  mother  of  one's  fiancee — for 
fear  that  she  was  going  to  reprove  him  for  something  in  his 
behavior  to  her  daughter. 

"Oh,  but  I've  kept  you  a  long  time!"  he  stammered. 
"Aren't  you  cold?" 

"Stacey,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer,  looking  gravely  into  the 
young  man's  face,  "you're  going  to  the  war." 

"How  did  you  know  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I've  seen  it  coming  for  many  days,"  she  replied,  "and 
to-night  I  was  sure.  You  came  to  tell  Marian." 

"Yes.  How  very,  very  good  of  you  to  want  to  speak 
to  me  and  to  wait  for  me  here  outside!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Come!  Let's  walk  up  and  down 
for  a  few  minutes,"  she  said,  and  took  his  arm. 

"Mrs.  Latimer,"  he  begged,  "you're  not  going  to  tell 
me  that  I'm  wrong?  It's  been  so  hard  for  me  to  decide. 
You're  not  going  to  tell  me  that  I  owe  it  to  Marian  to 
stay  ?  It  would  be  so  sweet  to  stay !" 

"Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!  no!  no!"  she  replied.  Then,  after  a 
pause:  "How  did  Marian  take  it?" 

"She  was  a  dear!"  he  said  loyally,  but  with  a  sinking 
feeling  at  his  heart.  "She  has  never  been  so  kind  to  me 
before." 

"Was  she  glad  you  were  going  to  be  a  hero  ?" 

He  started.  This  was  uncanny.  But  he  felt  resentment, 
too.  "Marian  is  so  fine,"  he  said  a  little  stiffly.  "She  sees 
things  in  flashes.  She  looks  through  the — the  ugly  facts 
to  the  glory  beneath  them.  I'm  not  a  hero — I  know  it  only 


The  Lonely  Warrior  17 

too  well;  but  Marian  sees  only  the  collective  recognition 
that  I  and  a  thousand  others  are*giving  of — of — the  exist- 
ence of  something  deeper  than  facts — of  an  idea."  He 
shook  his  head,  unable  to  express  his  thought,  and  uneasily 
conscious  that  he  was  defending  Marian — not  very  well, 
either. 

"My  dear  boy,"  Mrs.  Latimer  returned,  "please  believe 
that  I  am  not  blaming  Marian  for  anything.  I  recog- 
nize as  clearly  as  you  do  all  her  fineness.  Marian  lives  in 
a  palace.  And  when  you  live  properly  in  a  palace,  per- 
fectly at  home  there,  you  have  palatial  thoughts.  But,  you 
see,  I  don't  live  in  a  palace.  I'm  of  coarser  clay.  You 
don't  know  me  very  well,  Stacey,  but  I  know  you,  I  think. 
And  I  felt  I  must  see  you  for  a  few  minutes." 

He  was  moved  by  her  kindness  and  murmured  his  grati- 
tude. 

"But  I  don't  really  know,"  she  went  on,  "what  it  is  I 
want  to  say.  Nothing,  perhaps.  Certainly  nothing  that  is 
clear.  The  world  is  a  welter  of  confusion." 

He  nodded  assent,  feeling  closely  and  comfortingly 
drawn  to  this  middle-aged  woman  who  had  always  seemed 
aloof  to  him  before. 

Mrs.  Latimer  did  not  speak  again  for  several  minutes. 
"How  do  I  know  what  war  does?"  she  continued  at  last. 
"How  should  you  know,  for  that  matter?  But,  Stacey, 
if  it  changes  you  in  odd  deep  ways  that  you  can't  conceive 
of  now — nor  I,  either — don't,  please  don't,  suffer  too  much 
and  blame  yourself  for  the  changes.  There'll  be  so  much 
suffering  you'll  have  to  go  through  anyway  that  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  add  to  it  unnecessarily." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  I  understand,  Mrs. 
Latimer." 

"How  in  the  world  should  you?"  she  replied.  "I  don't, 
either.  I  only  feel  something  rather  vaguely.  But  there 


1 8  The  Lonely  Warrior 

is  one  thing  clear,  my  dear  boy.  I  want  you  to  be  certain 
that  you  have  a  sincere  affectionate  friend  in  me,  who  will 
always  try  her  puzzled  best  to  understand  you  sympatheti- 
cally. And  that  was  really  all  I  had  to  say." 

"Oh,  thank  you !"  he  cried,  genuinely  touched. 

"Now  take  me  home,"  she  added.  "We  must  go  care- 
fully around  the  house  and  I'll  let  myself  in  at  the  back 
door  so  that  Marian  won't  know  I've  been  out."  She 
laughed.  "Think  of  your  having  an  assignation  with  your 
mother-in-law  and  having  to  conceal  it  from  her  daughter !" 

But  when  Stacey  had  seen  Mrs.  Latimer  safely  enter  the 
back  door  of  her  house,  and  was  walking  home  along  the 
deserted  streets,  though  he  felt  warmed  and  comforted 
by  her  unexpected  intelligent  friendship,  he  also  felt  an 
uneasy  sense  of  disloyalty,  as  though  he  and  she  had  be- 
come accomplices  in  a  secret  league  against  Marian. 


3 

Stacey  arrived  in  New  York  one  afternoon  about  a  week 
later.  His  boat  was  to  sail  the  next  morning.  He  went  to 
the  small  hotel  on  Tenth  Street  where  he  always  stayed. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Carroll  ?  Glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said 
the  clerk. 

Stacey  wasted  no  time,  but  dropped  his  suitcase  in  his 
room  and  set  off  immediately  up-town  on  the  top  of  a 
motor-bus. 

It  was  clear  dry  weather,  not  too  cold,  and  the  city's 
buildings  stood  out  sharply  against  a  brilliant  sky.  Stacey 
had  never  liked  this  glittering  hardness  in  the  atmosphere 
of  New  York.  The  Metropolitan  Tower  wouldn't  be  so 
bad  and  the  Woolworth  would  be  bully,  he  had  often 
thought,  if  only  they  would  soar  up  dimly  into  a  softening 
haze,  as  they  would  in  Paris.  The  whole  show  was  good, 


The  Lonely  Warrior  19 

but  not  good  enough  to  stand  this  crude  vivid  light. 
Nothing  could  stand  it — neither  facades  nor  human  faces. 
It  was  like  an  immense  close-up  at  the  movies.  And  to- 
day, since  he  continued  to  feel  about  him  and  within  him- 
self so  much  confusion,  this  effect  of  physical  clarity  really 
made  him  uneasy. 

But  the  discomfort  soon  faded  and  he  thought  only  that 
he  was  to  have  this  whole  afternoon  and  evening  with 
Philip  Blair.  He  took  the  stuffy  elevator  in  the  Harlem 
apartment  house,  stepped  out,  and  hurried  down  the  dark 
hall  to  Philip's  door  with  no  other  feeling  than  gladness. 

Philip  himself  opened  the  door,  and  his  face  showed  as 
warm  a  pleasure  as  his  guest's.  He  was  thin  and  slight  al- 
most to  emaciation,  with  keen  prominent  blue  eyes,  a  sharp- 
cut  nose  whose  nostrils  seemed  to  sniff  like  a  dog's,  and  a 
short  fair  moustache.  He  looked  like  a  medieval  ascetic, 
superficially  modernized.  Just  at  present  he  was  in  shirt- 
sleeves and  held  a  pair  of  compasses  in  one  hand.  With 
the  other  he  shook  Stacey's  eagerly. 

"By  Jove,  I'm  glad  to  see  you !"  he  cried.  "But  why  do 
you  give  me  only  a  day?  Why  didn't  you  come  and  stay  a 
week?  Come  on  in!"  And  he  led  Stacey  down  a  narrow 
hall  and  through  the  dining-room  into  his  study. 

"Couldn't  do  it,"  Stacey  replied  on  the  way.  "Whole 
business  so  sudden." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  the  other  assented  quietly. 

"What  you  working  on?"  asked  Stacey,  leaning  over  the 
drawing-board  in  the  study  and  fumbling  abstractedly  at 
the  same  time  with  a  pile  of  sketches  that  lay,  curled  up 
anyhow,  on  a  table  close-by. 

"Public  library  for  a  village,"  said  Blair,  pulling  a  sketch 
of  the  front  elevation  from  the  rattling  heap  of  papers, 
spreading  it  out  on  the  board,  and  holding  it  down  flat. 

Together  they  leaned  over  it.    Stacey  nodded.    "Finel" 


20  The  Lonely  Warrior 

he  said.  "Awfully  good!  Let's  see.  It's  not  for  a  New 
England  village.  Where  is  it  for?  Pennsylvania?" 

"Pretty  near.  Western  New  York,  close  to  the  Penn- 
sylvania line." 

Stacey  continued  to  examine  the  drawing,  then  began  to 
smile,  poked  his  finger  at  it  with  a  wide  curving  gesture, 
and  finally  broke  into  a  frank  laugh.  "Always  the  same 
old  Phil!"  he  said  gaily,  dropping  into  an  easy  chair. 
"Quite  incorrigible!  Don't  you  ever  remember  how  many 
shameful  'Hors  Concours'  you  were  always  getting  at  the 
Beaux  Arts,  and  how  disapprovingly  old  Fromelles  used 
to  shake  his  head  over  your  pro  jets,  and  what  they  all  used 
to  think  of  you:  'Too  bad!  Just  a  little  vulgar!  Just  a 
little  vulgar !' " 

Blair  laughed  with  him,  but  after  a  moment  Stacey  be- 
came suddenly  silent  and  gazed  with  a  puzzled  frown  at  his 
friend,  wondering  how  it  was  that  any  one  so  physically 
frail  as  Blair  could  possess  such  creative  masculine  vigor  of 
mind. 

"How  are  you  getting  on,  Phil  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Blair  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  all  right  enough,*'  he 
answered  lightly.  "I  scrape  along  without  too  much  diffi- 
culty. It  would  be  easier  in  one  way  if  I  were  to  go  in  with 
some  firm,  but — " 

"Never  do — for  you,  never  in  the  world!"  Stacey  inter- 
rupted, shaking  his  head.  "You'd  feel  crushed." 

"Yes,  I'd  rather  go  it  on  my  own.  I'm  all  right.  Abso- 
lutely the  only  thing  that  bothers  me  is  not  getting  enough 
jobs.  I  don't  mean  because  I  need  them  financially,  but 
because — you  know  how  it  is — to  learn,  a  man  has  to  see 
his  work  in  actual  stone  and  brick." 

"You're  too  damned  good !"  said  Stacey  hotly.  "You've 
got  the  real  stuff  in  you.  Here  am  I,  prospering  like  a — 


The  Lonely  Warrior  21 

like  a  pork  packer,  while  you  struggle  along  unappreciated ; 
yet  you're  a  thousand  times  better  than  I." 

"You're  too  generous  and  loyal,  Stacey,"  Blair  returned, 
with  a  shake  of  his  fair  head.  "I  couldn't  ever  reach  your 
delicacy  in  detail." 

"Detail,  yes,"  Stacey  muttered.  "I—"  He,  too,  shook 
his  head,  while  his  friend  gazed  at  him  with  a  calm  clear 
smile.  "Lack  of  vulgarity  is  the  curse  of  more  places 
than  the  Beaux  Arts,"  Stacey  concluded  suddenly.  "There's 
a  brand-new  thought  for  you — brand-new  so  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned. Make  what  you  can  of  it,  Phil." 

Philip  Blair  laughed.  "Sounds  interesting,"  he  said.  "I'll 
have  to  think  it  over.  Anyhow,  you  needn't  worry  about 
me.  I  manage  to  scrape  enough  together  to  live  and  keep 
Catherine  and  the  boys  going." 

"Where  are  the  kiddies?" 

"Out  for  a  walk  with  her.    They'll  be  in  soon." 

After  this  a  silence,  that  perhaps  both  young  men  had  felt 
lying  in  wait,  descended  upon  them.  Blair  was  the  first  to 
meet  frankly  what  it  stood  for. 

"So  you're  going  over  into  it,  Stacey,"  he  said. 

Stacey  nodded.    "I've  got  to." 

"Well,"  said  Blair  slowly,  after  another  pause,  "I  sup- 
pose, in  view  of  the  tremendous  issue,  I  ought  to  feel  prin- 
cipally gladness  that  one  bit  more  of  strength  and  courage 
is  thrown  into  the  right  side  of  the  balance.  But,  do  you 
know,  I  don't — I  can't.  Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  not  big 
enough  to  get  away  from  personal  feelings.  And  yet  I 
don't  think  it's  merely  that.  The  truth  is,  Stacey,  that  you 
and  I  are  individualists.  We  were  born  like  that  and  we've 
been  brought  up  that  way.  The  profession  we've  chosen  is 
individualistic — not  perfectly  so,  because  we  have  to  meet 
the  ideas  of  our  clients;  but  a  good  deal  so,  all  the  same. 


22  The  Lonely  Warrior 

For  the  very  fact  that  people  in  general  are  so  standardized, 
unindividual,  wanting  in  ideas  of  their  own,  makes  them 
leave  pretty  much  in  our  hands  the  houses  they  hire  us  to 
build  for  them." 

Stacey  was  smiling.  He  recognized  with  affectionate 
amusement  a  characteristic  of  his  friend's  mind — that  in- 
ability to  leave  any  side  issue  of  a  theme  unexplored  before 
pursuing  the  main  theme  onward.  How  different  from 
Stacey's  father!  And  also  how  honest  and  thorough! 
Most  people  thought  that  Philip  had  a  wandering  mind.  He 
knew  better. 

For  Philip  always  did  come  back  to  the  theme.  He  was 
back  in  it  now.  "We're  against  the  current,"  he  was  saying 
sadly.  "The  whole  trend  of  the  world  is  overwhelmingly 
toward  collectivism,  doing  and  feeling  in  common,  stand- 
ardization. And  yet — and  yet — the  unit  is  the  individual; 
it  can't  ever  be  the  group.  The  individual's  a  fact.  There 
you  have  him,  complete,  a  world — his  only  one — to  himself. 
The  group's  a  fiction,  a  composite  photograph,  lifeless.  Oh, 
I  know  the  whole  trend  of  things  is  wrong  and  that  we're 
right — so  long  as  we  harness  our  individualism  and  don't 
let  it  grow  into  a  silly  cult. 

"Right? — wrong?"  he  went  on  musingly,  staring  off 
through  the  window.  "What  do  I  mean  by  right  and 
wrong?  Well,  I  mean,  I  suppose,  creatively  valuable,  cre- 
atively harmful.  And  the  war's  going  to  rush  and  swell 
the  advance  of  collectivism.  No  more  art,  no  more  thought, 
no  more  real  life!  Not  till  long  after  the  war  is  over. 
You'll  see." 

Well,  it  was  what  Stacey  himself  had  told  his  father. 
But  he  hadn't  perceived  all  that  it  meant.  That  was  what 
you  got  for  being  impressionistic  instead  of  thorough,  he 
told  himself  humbly. 

Blair  turned  his  eyes  back  slowly  to  his  friend.     "And 


The  Lonely  Warrior  23 

that,"  he  concluded,  his  thin  face  drawn  with  an  expression 
of  pain,  "is  why — though  I  know  you've  got  to  do  it,  and 
though  I'd  do  it  too,  if  I  had  the  bodily  health — that  is  why 
I  feel,  above  all,  grief  that  you  must  throw  yourself  into 
that  inferno  of  awful  physical  and  worse  mental  suffering. 
Forgive  me !"  he  cried  remorsefully. 

But  the  shadow  that  had  come  over  Stacey's  face  was  not 
there  because  of  the  prophecy  of  pain.  Stacey  was  thinking 
of  the  contrast  between  Philip's  words  and  Marian's. 
"That's  all  right,  Phil,"  he  said  quietly.  "It  wasn't  what 
you  said  that  bothered  me.  It  was  something  else.  Of 
course  I  know  what  I'm  going  into — so  far  as  one  can  know 
through  his  imagination  about  something  totally  outside  his 
experience.  It's  a  great  deal  better  to  think  of  it  beforehand 
and  be  ready." 

They  dropped  all  talk  of  the  war  after  this ;  and  before 
long  Philip's  sons  dashed  in.  Jack,  the  younger  boy,  who 
was  two-and-a-half,  ran  at  once  shyly  to  his  father ;  but  the 
older,  who  was  five,  gave  his  hand  to  Stacey  with  a  pretty 
confiding  cordiality. 

"How  do  you  do,  Uncle  Stacey?"  he  said,  with  childish 
formality,  recently  enough  learned  to  demand  care  and 
effort. 

"Hello,  Carter,"  returned  Stacey,  who  liked  the  boy  and 
liked  being  called  uncle. 

The  child  leaned  against  his  knee.  "Uncle  Stacey,"  he 
exclaimed,  his  soft  eager  face  glowing,  "will  you  do  'Fly 
away,  Jack!  Fly  away,  Jill!'  for  me?  I  think  I  can  find 
them  this  time.  I  think  I  know  where  they  went." 

Philip  Blair  laughed.  "Having  achieved  formality,"  he 
said,  "he  puts  it  behind  him  at  once.  'Something  accom- 
plished, something  done,  has  earned  a  night's  repose.' " 

"Quite  right,  too,"  Stacey  replied.  "I  promise  I  will 
after  just  a  little  while,  Carter.  Where's  your  mother  ?" 


24  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Here,"  said  Catherine,  coming  through  the  doorway.  "It 
was  windy  out.  I  had  to  fix  my  hair." 

She  shook  hands  with  Stacey,  a  little  shyly  and  formally, 
almost  like  her  son. 

"Let's  go  into  the  sitting-room,"  she  said,  in  the  abrupt 
way  she  had  of  speaking.  "There's  a  pleasant  fire  in  there.", 

But  when  they  had  sat  down  in  front  of  it  they  all  became 
silent— all,  that  is,  save  Jack,  who,  on  the  floor  with  his 
toys,  babbled  to  himself  ceaselessly  of  a  thousand  important 
things.  Even  Carter  was  silent.  He  sat  on  a  foot-stool 
and  gazed  at  Stacey  from  a  little  distance  with  patient 
expectancy. 

Stacey,  however,  had  forgotten  him.  A  dozen  thoughts 
were  moving  through  the  young  man's  mind,  yet  not  tur- 
bulently,  but  smoothly,  without  interference,  like  ships  on 
a  wide  river.  Perhaps  this  was  because  he  was  not  thinking 
of  himself  at  all,  but  of  Phil  and  Catherine.  He  looked  at 
Catherine,  sitting  there  across  the  hearth,  she,  too,  appar- 
ently far  away  in  thought,  and  tried  to  study  her  objectively. 
She  was  tall  and  dark  and  handsome,  with  high  cheek-bones, 
a  high  forehead,  and  black  eyes  set  deep  beneath  long  sweep- 
ing lashes.  She  had  a  magnificent  figure,  lithe,  supple  and 
without  opulence — slender,  even, — but  making  evident  the 
large  bony  structure.  So,  too,  with  her  head.  It  was  like 
a  firm  Mantegna  drawing,  revealing  clearly  what  lay  beneath 
the  smooth  close-textured  skin.  Therefore  in  repose  her 
face  appeared  even  stern.  There  was  something  sculp- 
turesque about  Catherine. 

But  these  things  were  externals.  What  was  she  really 
like?  Stacey  could  not  discover.  In  all  the  years  that  he 
had  known  her,  first  as  Philip's  fiancee  and  then  as  Philip's 
wife,  he  had  never  got  beneath  her  intense  shy  reserve.  Yet 
— which  seemed  odd — there  was  no  sense  of  constraint  be- 
tween them  as  long  as  Phil  was  there,  too.  Stacey  could 


The  Lonely  Warrior  25 

talk  impersonally  with  her,  or,  better  still,  sit  for  a  long  time 
silent  with  her,  as  now,  perfectly  at  ease  and  sure  that  she, 
too,  felt  at  ease.  That  was  all,  though.  He  could  not  under- 
stand the  marriage.  Still,  he  recognized  that  it  was  a  happy 
marriage  and  he  admitted  loyally  that  a  man  very  rarely 
did  understand  his  most  intimate  friend's  choice  of  a  wife. 

Sometimes,  he  remembered,  he  had  tried  to  sum  up  Cath- 
erine and  her  relation  to  Phil  impressionistically.  Once 
he  had  told  himself  that  she  was  like  a  castle  and  Philip 
like  a  wind  blowing  around  it,  rattling  the  shutters  but 
leaving  the  castle  permanent  and  unchanged.  But  he  felt 
a  touch  of  impatience  now  in  the  recollection  of  that  judg- 
ment. He  had  always  been  full  of  such  fancies.  Perhaps 
he  had  even  cultivated  them  and  felt  a  small  pride  in  them. 
Somehow,  in  these  last  weeks  he  had  come  to  feel  almost 
antipathy  for  these  baubles.  What  did  they  really  explain  ? 
What  good  did  it  do  to  catch  a  mood,  even  truly?  What 
was  a  mood  but  an  evanescent  unrelated  thing? 

But  distaste  for  oneself  does  not  suffice  to  alter  one's 
nature.  Stacey  did  not  perceive  that  his  present  musings 
had  the  same  quality  they  disapproved  of. 

It  was  Carter  who  broke  the  silence — with  a  plaintive 
unconscious  sigh. 

Philip  laughed,  but  his  visitor  started.  "Oh,  Carter,  old 
chap,"  he  said  remorsefully,  "I  forgot  all  about  Jack  and 
Jill !  I'm  ready  now.  Come  on  over." 

The  child  ran  to  him  delightedly,  all  the  ages  and  ages  of 
tedious  waiting  forgotten  at  once ;  and  Stacey  took  a  postage 
stamp  from  his  pocket,  tore  it  carefully  in  half,  and  gummed 
the  pieces  to  the  nails  of  his  two  forefingers.  Experience 
had  taught  him  that  stamps  were  safer  than  scraps  of  ordi- 
nary paper,  which  had  an  embarrassing  way  of  coming  off. 

"Two  little  black-birds  sitting  on  a  hill, 
One  named  Jack  and  one  named  Jill. 


26  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Fly  away,  Jack ! — Fly  away,  Jill ! 

Come  back,  Jack ! — Come  back,  Jill !" 

Stacey  performed  the  magic  trick  over  and  over  again, 
while  Carter  searched  imavailingly  for  the  birds'  hiding- 
place,  sure  that  he  would  find  it  the  next  time,  and  Jack, 
not  understanding  but  delighted  none  the  less,  trotted 
around  tirelessly  after  his  brother,  and  the  November  twi- 
light crept  in  through  the  windows  and  darkened  the  room. 
Then  it  was  time  for  the  children  to  go  to  bed,  and  Catherine 
led  them  away,  leaving  the  two  men  together. 

After  a  while  she  came  back,  and  they  all  three  went  in 
to  dinner. 

Stacey  glanced  at  the  table  appreciatively.  "Phil  has  one 
human  foible,  anyway,"  he  said  to  Catherine.  "He  never 
cared  what  he  ate,  but  he's  always  been  fastidious  about 
how  he  eats  it." 

Catherine  gave  him  a  rare  smile,  that  softened  her  face 
to  beauty.  "Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "that  all  the  setting 
is  good,  but  the  dinner  itself  not?" 

He  laughed,  pleased  and  surprised  at  the  disappearance  of 
her  shyness.  "You  know  I  don't.  How  can  I  tell  what  the 
dinner's  like  when  everything's  concealed  beneath  those 
heavy  silver  covers?" 

He  stayed  until  very  late  in  the  evening.  It  had  always 
been  Catherine's  way  to  disappear  rather  early  and  leave  her 
husband  and  Stacey  to  themselves,  no  doubt  because  she 
knew  that  she  had  no  real  part  in  their  intimacy.  But  to- 
night, though  she  went  out  of  the  room  from  time  to  time, 
she  invariably  returned.  Indeed,  she  seemed  different  to 
Stacey.  It  was,  he  thought,  as  though  one  thickness  of  the 
veil  between  them  had  been  stripped  away.  (Oh,  Stacey! 
Dislike  of  impressionism?).  Once  he  caught  her  gazing  at 
him  with  a  melancholy  intentness;  but,  seeing  that  he  was 


The  Lonely  Warrior  27 

looking,  she  turned  her  eyes  away  at  once  and  stared  into 
the  fire. 

The  war  was  not  mentioned;  but,  because  there  was  no 
f  everishness  in  the  talk  or  sense  of  constraint  upon  the  three, 
Stacey  felt  that  this  revealed  no  attempt  to  evade  the  war 
and  his  share  in  it.  The  war  was  there  and  he  was  going 
to  it.  This  was  a  simple  fact,  conceded  by  all  three.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  about  it  or  say  about  it.  War  was  not  a 
part  of  their  past  or  woven  anyhow  into  the  fabric  of  their 
minds.  Not  a  bit  of  use  for  conversation. 

"I'll  be  down  at  the  boat  to-morrow  morning,"  Phil  said, 
when  at  last  Stacey  rose  to  go. 

"Thanks,  Phil,"  Stacey  replied  gratefully.  "Good  night, 
Catherine,  and  thank  you  both — ever  so  much.  I  feel — 
bathed  in  quiet  happiness." 

Catherine  gave  him  her  hand,  with  a  murmured  good 
night,  then  dropped  it  abruptly. 

"Shy  once  again,"  thought  Stacey  with  kindly  amusement. 


When  the  next  day  all  good-byes  had  been  said,  and  the 
great  ship  was  sweeping  out  to  sea,  and  Stacey  was  walking 
to  and  fro  alone  on  the  deck,  with  all  his  thirty  years  of  life 
vanishing  behind  him,  rounded  out,  ended,  a  completed 
story,  while  between  it  and  his  present  self  a  mist  began 
to  rise,  like  the  mist  that  was  rising  between  ship  and  shore, 
he  gathered  up  the  impressions  the  final  week  had  left  him 
— gently,  as  one  ties  together  old  letters  before  putting  them 
away.  And,  stripping  them  down  to  essentials,  he  could  find 
but  this: — that  there  was  a  sweet  serenity  in  the  memory 
of  the  afternoon  and  evening  with  the  Blairs,  an  odd  sense 
of  comfort  in  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Latimer  stepping  towards 
him  beneath  the  arc-light  in  front  of  her  house,  and — yes — 
comfort  again  in  the  thought  of  Julie — his  sister,  Julie,  with 


28  The  Lonely  Warrior 

whom  he  had  never  had  anything  in  common  save  their 
relationship,  but  the  vision  of  whose  good-humored  face, 
stained  with  tears,  and  of  whose  ridiculous  efforts  to  make 
her  eight-months-old  baby  say  good-bye  to  Uncle  Stacey,  re- 
curred to  him  now  gratefully.  In  the  thought  of  Marian 
there  was  only  uneasy  pain.  Perhaps,  he  reflected  sadly, 
this  was  just  because  she  had  hurt  his  vanity,  or  perhaps  it 
was  because  at  such  a  moment  of  leave-taking  what  one 
demanded  was  merely  simple  affection,  or  perhaps  it  was 
because  intense  love  must  be  uneasy  and  painful. 

Well.  .  .  . 

He  put  the  letters  away  and  closed  the  drawer  upon  them. 


PART  I 


PART   I 
CHAPTER  I 

"FuNNY !  June  is  June.  Permanent  sort  of  thing.  Looks, 
in  1919,  ridiculously  the  same  as  it  looked  in  1914." 

So  Stacey  Carroll  reflected  idly,  as  he  stepped  out  into 
the  fresh  dusty  sunlight  from  the  pier  at  the  foot  of  West 
Twenty-Third  Street.  He  wore  the  uniform  of  a  captain  of 
infantry  in  the  American  army,  with  the  red,  white  and  blue 
ribbon  of  the  D.  S.  C. 

He  summoned  a  taxi  with  an  imperious  but  economical 
gesture  of  the  wrist  and  forefinger,  spoke  two  words  to 
the  chauffeur,  flung  in  his  bags  lightly,  and  set  off  for  the 
small  hotel  on  Tenth  Street.  During  the  whole  of  the  brief 
ride  he  looked  out  of  the  window,  observantly  enough,  but 
he  did  not  appear  to  be  .affected  one  way  or  another  by  what 
he  saw.  At  any  rate  his  face  remained  impassive  until, 
when  he  had  descended  from  the  taxi  and  entered  the 
hotel,  the  clerk  at  the  desk  shook  his  hand  and  said :  "How 
do  you  do,  Captain  Carroll?  Glad  to  see  you  safely  back, 
sir."  Then  Stacey  smiled  in  an  odd  twisted  way  that  did 
not  make  the  expression  of  his  mouth  more  genial  or  bring 
any  expression  at  all  into  his  eyes. 

In  his  room  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  laid  it  on  an  ash-tray, 
and  set  immediately  to  unpacking  his  bags,  swiftly,  sys- 
tematically and  without  haste,  pausing  only  for  an  occa- 
sional puff  at  the  cigarette.  Three  minutes  before  he  had 
finished  unpacking  he  turned  on  the  water  in  the  bath-tub. 
The  bath  was  ready  at  almost  the  precise  moment  Stacey 
was  ready  for  it.  He  dressed  with  the  same  smooth  unin- 


32  The  Lonely  Warrior 

terested  efficiency  he  had  shown  in  unpacking  and  undress- 
ing. Only  once  did  he  make  any  wasteful  gesture.  This 
was  when,  his  foot  coming  in  contact  with  one  of  the  put- 
tees he  had  laid  on  the  floor,  he  deliberately  kicked  the  put- 
tee across  the  room. 

Finally,  when  he  had  bathed  and  dressed  and  everything 
was  put  away,  Stacey  looked  in  the  telephone  book,  then 
called  up  Philip  Blair's  number. 

"Phil?  This  is  Stacey.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  What? 
3  *  .  Oh,  just  now,  a  few  minutes  ago!  .  .  .  How's  that? 
*  .  .  Oh,  yes,  perfectly  sound!  No  wooden  leg,  no  false 
face,  nothing  at  all !  ...  Why  didn't  I  what?  (What  the 
devil's  come  over  your  telephone  system?)  .  .  .  Oh, 
write  of tener !  Well,  I  did !  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course.  'T's  what 
I  telephoned  for.  Sure !  Be  right  up." 

Stacey's  voice  had  been  cool  and  almost  expressionless, 
but  his  face  had  softened  a  little.  After  he  had  hung  up  the 
receiver  he  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  abstractedly  ahead 
of  him.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out  of  the  hotel. 

But  he  did  not  take  a  motor-bus.  Instead,  he  set  off  up 
Fifth  Avenue  on  foot,  with  an  easy  sauntering  gait  that 
was  faster  than  it  looked.  It  was  not  at  all  the  way  Stacey 
had  walked  in  1914.  It  was  more  graceful  and  fluent,  re- 
vealing a  perfect,  harmonious  and  unconscious  command  of 
his  whole  body. 

As  he  walked,  he  stared  about  him  restlessly;  but  noth- 
ing that  he  saw  disturbed  the  immobility  of  his  face  until  he 
reached  the  triumphal  arch  at  Madison  Square.  He  gazed  at 
this  for  some  time  with  a  most  unpleasant  expression  indeed, 
then  approached  it  more  closely  and  read  the  immortal  vil- 
lage  names  inscribed  upon  it. 

"Oh,  damn !"  he  said,  and,  walking  quickly  to  the  nearest 
subway  station,  took  a  train  for  Harlem. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  33 

Same  dingy  apartment  house,  looking  a  little  dingier  after 
five  years,  same  dark  elevator,  same  stuffy  hall;  and  here 
came  Phil  and  Catherine  running  down  it  to  meet  him. 
Their  eagerness  touched  Stacey.  He  did  not  himself  feel 
eager,  though  he  was  glad  to  see  them. 

"Well!"  cried  Phil.  "Well!  Now  how— now  what— I 
mean,  what  can  a  fellow  say  in  these  circumstances  ?  Come 
along  I  Come  on  in !  Hurry  up  about  it !" 

And :  "We're  so  glad !"  said  Catherine. 

They  pushed  him  into  their  flat,  through  the  dining-room, 
into  the  sitting-room,  and  plumped  him  down  in  an  easy 
chair.  A  table  stood  beside  it,  with  a  pitcher  and  glasses. 
Ice  tinkled  as  the  table  was  jostled. 

"Sauterne  cup,"  Phil  explained  breathlessly.  "'Gather 
ye  rose-buds'  and  so  forth.  Only  a  short  time  left,  you 
know.  Sole  subject  of  conversation  in  our  great  republic. 
Here !  Drink !  'Drink  for  your  altars  and  your  fires !'  I 
mean  to  say:  'Drink,  for  once  dead  you  never — '  oh,  no, 
that  isn't  it!"  And  he  broke  out  laughing. 

Catherine  was  calmer,  or  anyway  more  static.  She  had 
sat  down  on  an  ottoman,  elbows  on  knees,  chin  in  hands, 
and  was  gazing  up  at  Stacey.  But  her  face,  too,  glowed 
with  pleasure. 

Stacey  was  smiling  faintly.  He  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  and  said  to  himself  that  they  were  both  just  the  same 
as  four  and  a  half  years  since,  for  all  that  Phil  looked  older 
and  more  worn  and  even  a  little  thinner. 

"You're  both  awfully  good  to  me,"  he  said. 

"We're  awfully  noisy !"  exclaimed  Phil  remorsefully,  sit- 
ting down.  "We  forget  that  you're  tired." 

Stacey  lit  a  cigarette.  "I'm  not  tired,  Phil,"  he  remarked. 
"Ilnever  get  tired  nowadays.  Nothing  like  military  service 
for  keeping  one  fit,  you  know,"  he  added  drily.  "And  I'm 


34  The  Lonely  Warrior 

gladder  to  see  both  of  you  than  any  other  two  people  in  the 
world."  He  spoke  with  an  effort.  "You  both  all  right? 
Everything  going  well  ?  The  children  ?" 

"Out  at  their  aunt's  house  in  the  country,"  replied  Philip, 
a  look  of  perplexity  coming  over  his  face. 

There  was  a  pause. 

Then  suddenly  Catherine  spoke,  haltingly,  with  the  way 
she  had  of  being  unused  to  words,  but  earnestly.  "What 
does  it — do  to  a  man,  Stacey  ?  As  much  as — all  that  ?" 

He  sighed  in  relief.  "Wipes  him  out,  Catherine,"  he  re- 
plied in  an  emotionless  voice.  "Replaces  him  with  some  one 
else.  Good  thing  that  you  saw.  Because  I  couldn't  possibly 
keep  up  the  bluff.  I  can't  pretend  with  you  two." 

"Nor  with  any  one  else,"  said  Catherine. 

"Nor  with  any  one  else." 

Philip  laughed.  "Well,  then,"  he  declared,  "we  have  with 
us  to-day  a  brand-new  friend !" 

But  Catherine  was  clearly  going  to  have  things  over  and 
done  with.  "You  mean,"  she  said  courageously,  "that  you're 
— glad,  a  little — to  see  us,  but  not — " 

"Not  the  way  I  ought  to  be.  Only  in  a  vague  uneasy 
dead  way.  Rotten,  isn't  it?  And  brutal.  And  bound  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  But  what  can  you  expect?  If  I  were 
to  see  a  man  cut  in  two  by  a  bus  on  the  Avenue  I  shouldn't 
feel  anything  at  all  except  a  little  distaste.  There  you  have 
it.  Pretty,  isn't  it?" 

"But  the  truth,"  said  Catherine,  her  eyes  shining. 

"Yes,"  Stacey  admitted.    "There's  that  to  be  said  for  it." 

Philip  Blair  tugged  at  his  short  blond  moustache  and 
stared  at  his  friend  wistfully.  "You  don't  hurt  me,  Stacey," 
he  said  at  last.  "And  it's  not  true  that  you're  not  fond  of  us. 
If  it  were  true  you  wouldn't  have  been  so  honest.  How  do 
I  know  what  they've  done  to  you  ?  You're  all — seared  over. 
Had  to  be,  I  suppose,  or  die.  You'll  come  back  to  us.  Now 


The  Lonely  Warrior  35 

"tell  us  about  all  the  outside  things.    First  with  the  English." 

"I  was  with  them,  first  as  an  N.  C.  O.,  then  as  a  lieuten- 
ant, up  to  June,  1917.  Then  I  transferred  to  our — " 

"Hold  on!    Hold  on!    You  got  the  D.  S. Q.    How?" 

"Yes,  the  D.  S.  O.  On  the  Somme,  at  Bazentin-le-Grand, 
for  going  out  with  ten  men  and  cleaning  up  a  machine-gun 
nest.  I  transferred — " 

"Damn  it  all !"  said  Phil,  "is  that  the  best  you  can  do  with 
it?  How  did  you  do  it?" 

Stacey  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "And  then,"  he  went 
on,  "as  I  said,  I  transferred  to  the  American  army  and  was 
made  a  captain.  And  I  got  the  D.  S.  C.  'for  cool  leadership 
and  conspicuous  bravery  in  action.'  " 

A  sudden  change  came  over  Stacey's  face.  It  woke,  as  it 
were,  to  life — but  to  sinister  life. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that,"  he  said  in  a  vibrant  passionate 
voice.  "I  got  the  D.  S.  C.  for  carrying  out  an  order  that  was 
sheer  murder,  for  leading  my  company  in  a  frontal  attack 
against  a  perfectly  worthless  position  over  ground  rotten 
with  machine-guns.  Not  half  of  my  men  got  off  clear.  A 
perfectly  worthless  position,  I  tell  you,  that  we  retired  from 
next  day  because  it  wasn't  possible  to  hold  and  wouldn't 
have  done  us  any  good  if  we  could  have  held  it." 

Well,  there  was  capacity  for  emotion  left  in  Stacey, — that 
was  clear.  Any  one's  first  impression  of  him  would  have 
been  wrong.  The  question  was — capacity  for  what  emo- 
tion? A  fierce  chill  intensity  glowed  in,  or  perhaps  behind, 
his  face.  It  died  down  as  swiftly  as  it  had  kindled. 

"What  a — what  a  ghastly  blunder!"  Philip  Blair  mur- 
mured. 

Catherine  said  nothing. 

"That's  what  war  is,"  Stacey  replied.  "One  blunder  after 
another.  The  side  which  makes  the  most  blunders  loses. 
A  trite  thought,  but  true." 


36  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Then  the  Germans  made  the  most?" 

"Oh,  by  far!" 

"Strange !  For  a  while  they  seemed  invincible — machine- 
perfect." 

Stacey  lit  a  fresh  cigarette.  "It  was  the  legend  they  threw 
out.  They  might  have  won  perhaps  if  they  hadn't  grown  to 
believe  in  it  themselves,"  he  remarked,  almost  indifferently. 

He  laid  his  cigarette  down  suddenly  and  smiled.  "Come!" 
he  said,  with  a  hard  cheerfulness,  "I'll  tell  you  about  some- 
thing pleasant — the  reason  I'm  here  only  now,  the  reason  I 
didn't  get  my  'majority,'  the  reason  they  packed  me  off  to 
Italy  after  the  Armistice,  the  one  thing  I  'did  in  the  Great 
War'  that  I'll  tell  my  son  about.  It  was  in  the  Argonne,  and 
I  was  in  command  of  a  battalion — had  been  for  a  long  time. 
We  were  in  a  fairly  isolated  position.  You  know  what  the 
Argonne  was — woods,  lightly  held  as  to  numbers  by  the 
enemy,  careful,  oh,  so  careful,  machine-gun  nests  every- 
where! We'd  had  terrible  losses  but  had  plugged  on 
through,  little  by  little.  Paused  at  last.  Sat  still  for  about 
a  week.  Being  bombarded  in  a  desultory  fashion,  but 
comfortable  enough— comparatively.  This  was  November. 
Well,  on  November  tenth,  in  the  morning,  I  learned  some- 
thing that  I  hadn't  any  business  to  learn, — that  the  Armistice 
was  coming  absolutely.  On  November  tenth  at  four  P.M. 
I  received  orders  to  attack  the  position  in  front  of  us — sweet 
little  hill,  picture-puzzle  of  machine-guns — at  five  A.M.  the 
next  morning,  November  eleventh — November  eleventh! 
Well,  I  didn't  do  it." 

Stacey's  smile  disappeared,  and  his  face  took  on  again 
that  intensity  that  seemed  to  reveal  the  presence  within  him 
of  some  single  dark  absorbing  passion. 

"Think  of  it !"  he  said.  "The  cold-blooded  futile  murder 
in  such  orders — given  why?  How  should  I  know?  Be- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  37 

cause  Headquarters  didn't  care  about  going  through  the 
red  tape  of  changing  their  prearranged  plans,  I  suppose. 
Anyhow,"  he  concluded,  "I  didn't  obey.  I  stood  out  for 
once  against  the  machine." 

"What  did  they  do  to  you  when  they  found  out?"  and: 
"Did  the  soldiers  under  you  know?"  cried  Phil  and 
Catherine  simultaneously. 

"Can't  say  as  to  my  men.  My  lieutenants  knew.  They'd 
never  have  split  on  me.  But  of  course  I  was  found  out. 
There  we  still  were,  you  see,  after  the  Armistice,  which 
came  that  very  day,  in  the  same  position  as  before.  My 
colonel,  a  decent  fellow  for  a  Regular  Army  officer,  did  the 
least  he  could  under  the  circumstances — relieved  me  of  my 
command  and  sent  me  as  liaison  officer  to  Italy,  one  being 
called  for  about  then.  Whole  thing  very  quiet.  No  fuss 
made.  I  should  think  not !  Wouldn't  I  have  loved  a  fuss  ? 
But  the  fact  remains,"  he  said,  "that,  having  set  out  to  'make 
the  world  a  better  place  to  live  in'  (wasn't  that  the  way 
my  departure  was  explained? — not  at  the  time,  of  course; 
then  we  were  to  'keep  our  minds  neutral' — but  posthu- 
mously, after  three  years)  I  return,  having  made  it  a  place, 
of  no  matter  what  sort,  for  a  hundred  young  men  or  so 
still  to  be  alive  in.  They'd  have  been  rotting  in  neat  little 
graves  but  for  me.  And  that's  all.  I  got  demobilized  over 
there — eventually — in  Italy,  and  came  back,  a  free  man  in 
spite  of  the  uniform,  on  the  'Dante.'  And  here  I  am." 

He  leaned  back  and  lit  still  another  cigarette. 

"And  do  you  know  what  people  are  going  to  say  to  you  ?'* 
asked  Catherine  in  an  odd  voice.  "They're  going  to  say: 
'Stacey,  you  smoke  too  much.'  " 

Suddenly  she  buried  her  head  in  her  hands  and  burst 
out  sobbing. 

Both  men  started,  and  Philip  half  rose,  then  sat  down 


38  The  Lonely  Warrior 

again,  pulling  his  moustache  and  considering  her  helplessly. 
Stacey  gazed  at  her  with  a  kind  of  grim  sadness,  as  if  from 
an  immense  distance. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  said  at  last,  controlling  herself  and 
wiping  her  eyes.  "It — it  isn't  because  you're  bitter,  Stacey," 
she  went  on  wearily  after  a  moment,  choosing  her  words 
with  difficulty,  "and,  oh,  not  at  all  because  you  feel — burned 
out  and  unaffectionate.  "It's — Phil,  you  tell  him.  I 
can't  talk." 

"It's  because  Catherine  is  tired,"  said  Phil  simply.  "With 
all  that  you've  been  through,  it  would  be  too  much  to  ask 
you  to  sympathize  with  what  she's  been  through.  But,  in- 
finitely less  than  your  experience,  that's  been  a  lot,  too.  She 
always  looked  at  things  squarely — more  squarely  than  I. 
And  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  the  truth  you're  seeking 
comes  marching  at  vou  with  great  steps  from  a  long  way 
off  and  shows  itself  a  bleak  brutal  thing?" 

Stacey  gazed  at  his  friend  with  intellectual  sympathy 
at  least. 

Phil  went  on  slowly.  "We  believed  in  the  war,  too.  Per- 
haps not  quite  so  ardently  as  you,  but  we  believed  in  it.  It 
seemed,  in  the  big  essentials,  right  against  wrong.  We  were 
told — oh,  you  know  all  the  things  we  were  told,  the  dreams 
we  lived  on !" 

"I  know,"  said  Stacey. 

"All  to  end  in  this, — this  bitter  merciless  peace,  with  all 
the  seeds  of  new  wars  in  it !" 

"Well,"  asked  Stacey,  "when  you  saw  the  futile  pettiness 
that  revealed  itself  in  men,  and  the  pomposity,  and  the 
selfishness,  and  the  greed" — he  spat  the  word  out — "did  you 
expect  anything  better  ?" 

"Not  after  a  while,  no,"  Phil  replied  steadily.  "At  first  I 
did.  When  I  saw  the  heroism.  What  happened  to  the  war  ? 
A  great  wrong  zvas  done.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  you 


The  Lonely  Warrior  39 

went  to  war  nobly  to  right  it.  Belgium  was  invaded, 
wasn't  it?" 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Stacey.  "I  suppose  so.  You 
touched  the  truth  when  you  said  we  'went  to  war.'  What 
did  we  go  to  ?  Suppose  one  ant  massacred  another  and  you 
arranged  an  earthquake  to  punish  it.  That's  what  happened. 
You  see,  a  time  came,"  he  continued  slowly,  an  odd  dazed 
look  in  his  eyes, — "about  1916  it  began,  I  should  think — 
when  all  the  surface  seemed  to  have  been  stripped  from  life, 
one  layer  after  another,  until  there  was  nothing  left  showing 
butjuniversal  naked  pain.  Nothing  mattered  except  this.  It 
was  so  much  bigger  than  anything  else.  Belgium  didn't  mat- 
ter. Prussian  militarism  was  a  word.  Love  and  hate  dis- 
appeared, unimportant.  Nothing  was  left  but  pain." 

Catherine  drew  a  long  breath.  "And  then?"  she 
murmured. 

"And  then,"  he  returned,  "you  went  on  existing  somehow, 
impersonally,  without  any  emotions — " 

"Are  you  sure?"  Phil  broke  in. 

"And  without  one  tattered  shred  of  an  illusion  left.  I 
made  up  a  story  about  it  once — it  must  have  been  in  1916. 
Imagine  a  man  who  has  always  lived  in  a  house  with  a  roof 
of  beautiful  stained  glass,  and  who  revels  in  the  soft  colors 
that  shine  through.  One  day  a  tremendous  hail  storm 
comes  and  shatters  the  glass  to  fragments  and  lets  the  bleak 
white  daylight  pour  in.  Well,  at  first  the  man  is  heart- 
broken. But,  after  a  little,  he  thinks :  'Anyway  this  is  truth. 
This  is  real  light.  I've  been  living  falsely.'  So  he  bends 
down  to  the  marble  floor  to  see  what  has  done  the  damage, 
but  all  that  he  can  find  is  a  little  pool  of  dirty  water." 

Philip  and  Catherine  stared  at  Stacey. 

The  latter  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "But  that's  all 
past,"  he  said  coolly.  "That  was  1916.  I  give  you  my 
word  that  I  don't  think  about  myself  at  all  any  more.  It's 


40  The  Lonely  Warrior 

an  effort,  trying  to.  I  haven't  any  thoughts,  and  I  don't 
care  a  rap  for  any  one,  and  there  isn't  anything  I  want  to  do, 
but  I'm  jolly  well  not  going  to  do  anything  I  don't  want  to 
do.  So  that's  that !" 

Catherine  rose.  She  seemed  quite  her  calm  self  again. 
She  even  smiled.  And  there  was  only  a  slight  unsteadiness 
in  her  voice  when  she  spoke. 

"Oh,  no,  it  isn't,  Stacey !"  she  said.  "You  don't  want  to 
stay  to  dinner  with  us,  but  you're  going  to,  all  the  same." 

He  laughed.    "All  right,"  he  assented. 


CHAPTER  II 

"I  WISH,"  thought  Stacey  nervously,  when,  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  next  day  but  one,  his  train,  slowing  down,  was 
passing  through  the  suburbs  of  Vernon,  "I  wish  that  old 
things  would  either  die  outright  or  else  live." 

For  there  in  the  distance  crept  by,  on  its  hill,  the  Endicott 
School,  where  he  had  gone  as  a  boy;  here  was  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  the  Drive,  where  he  had  often  motored  with 
Marian.  And  old  emotions  stirred  feebly  within  him  like 
ghosts  of  their  dead  selves.  He  did  not  want  them;  they 
annoyed  him.  They  had  nothing  to  do  with  Stacey  Carroll, 
1919.  They  made  him  conscious  of  himself,  that  he  had 
a  self. 

They  were  worse  than  anything  he  felt  at  sight  of  the 
small  crowd  which  awaited  him  as  the  train  swept  into  the 
station.  Amusement  submerged  all  other  feelings  then. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "the  conquering  hero!"— 
and  plunged  down  into  the  tumult. 

There  was  his  father,  his  face  rigid  with  repressed  emo- 
tion, his  hand  shaking  Stacey's  vigorously.  And  there  were 
half  a  dozen  of  his  old  friends  standing  back  to  let  the 
family  have  free  play.  And  here  was  his  sister,  Julie,  fatter 
than  in  1914,  laughing  and  crying  and  kissing  him  and  trying 
to  talk  all  at  once,  while  her  pleasant- faced  husband,  Jimmy 
Prout,  smilingly  held  out  a  hand  across  her  shoulder  and 
managed  to  grasp  one  of  Stacey's  fingers. 

Did  they  really  care  so  much  as  all  this  for  him?  Stacey 
wondered,  with  remorse  at  feeling  so  little  himself.  Or  was 
it  just  the  dramatic  moment? 

Then  all  at  once  his  coolness  was  swept  away  by  a  gust 

41 


42  The  Lonely  Warrior 

of  genuine  emotion,  the  last  he  should  have  felt — anger  and 
something  like  horror.  For  Julie  had  bent  over  and  lifted 
high  her  five-year-old  son,  and  the  child  had  on  a  tiny  khaki 
uniform  and  was  saluting  his  uncle  solemnly,  fingers  stiffly 
touching  his  over-seas  cap. 

"For  God's  sake,  Julie !"  cried  Stacey,  his  face  white. 

The  proud  smile  suddenly  vanished  from  his  sister's  face. 
She  stared  at  him  in  hurt  surprise.  "What's  the  matter, 
Stacey  ?"  she  stammered.  "Don't  you  like  him  ?  Don't  you 
like  Junior?" 

"Of  course  I  like  him!"  he  muttered.  "It's  just  the 
uniform.  Don't  put  it  on  him,  Julie."  He  swung  the  boy 
up  in  his  arms.  "Don't  salute,  old  fellow !"  he  said,  sweep- 
ing off  the  little  cap  from  the  blond  curls.  "Give  us 
a  kiss!" 

"Oh,  I  thought  you'd  like  it !"  said  Julie  wretchedly.  "I 
trained  him  so  carefully  to  salute." 

"It's  all  right,  old  girl!"  said  Stacey,  putting  the  child 
down.  His  wave  of  emotion  had  disappeared.  He  was 
vaguely  sorry  to  have  hurt  his  sister's  feelings. 

Other  people  had  crowded  up.  The  station  rang  with 
greetings.  But,  through  the  insistent  pressure  forward  of 
Mr.  Carroll,  Senior,  who  had  hold  of  his  son's  arm,  Stacey 
presently  found  himself  at  the  waiting  motor  car,  into  which 
the  train  porter  (thanks  to  Jimmy  Prout's  directions)  had 
piled  Stacey's  bags. 

"Good-bye  for  now,"  said  Julie,  giving  her  brother  an- 
other kiss.  "We're  going  to  take  Junior  home,  but  we'll  be 
out  at  dad's  for  dinner." 

And  Stacey  was  in  the  tonneau  of  his  father's  car,  with 
only  his  father  by  his  side.  The  car  moved  off. 

Mr.  Carroll  drew  a  long  breath.  "Ouf !"  he  exclaimed. 
"So  you're  back  at  last,  son !"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

"Back  at  last.    Deuce  of  a  long  time,  isn't  it?" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  43 

Mr.  Carroll  nodded  gravely.  "Longer  than  any  one  can 
imagine.  I've  missed  you  terribly,  Stacey." 

The  young  man  found  himself  wondering.  Was  it  true? 
Was  affection  a  real  and  vivid  thing?  He,  Stacey,  had  had 
his  life,  such  as  it  was,  in  these  four  years  and  a  half.  He 
had  not  missed  his  father,  save  in  a  mild  way  now  and  then. 
Well,  his  father,  too,  had  had  his  own  life.  His  days  must 
have  been  taken  up  with  business.  He  must  have  dined 
out  frequently  in  the  evenings  or  have  had  people  to 
dinner.  Had  his  thoughts  truly  clung  to  Stacey?  Wasn't 
it  all  half  a  convention?  Between  a  child,  helpless,  ap- 
pealing, undeveloped,  and  a  father,  protective,  tender, 
apprehensive  of  a  thousand  infant  dangers, — there,  indeed, 
was  a  poignant  relationship !  Afterward  ? 

Not  that  Stacey  was  not  fond  of  his  father.  He  was  fond 
of  him  even  now,  but  without  pretence,  decoration  or  melo- 
drama. And,  though  he  pursued  these  idle  thoughts  in  a  cool 
detached  way,  he  was  not  quite  cool,  not  quite  detached. 

"You  don't  look  a  day  older,  dad,"  he  said. 

"No?  I  ought  to.  I  feel  older— or  did  till  just  now." 
Mr.  Carroll  scrutinized  his  son's  face  affectionately.  "You 
look  older,  son,"  he  continued,  "older  in  a  good  sense — 
grown  up,  surer  of  yourself.  It's  made  a  man  of  you." 

Except  for  a  faint  sense  of  irony,  this  estimate  produced 
no  impression  at  all  on  the  young  man.  He  was  simply  not 
interested  in  the  subject.  However,  his  father  pursued  it 
pleasantly. 

"Looking  you  over,  five  years  ago,  a  business  man  would 
have  said :  'Charming  boy,  young,  fresh,  eager,  full  of  ideas, 
but  something  of  a  dreamer.*  To-day  he'd  think :  There's  a 
strong  man  that  I  could  put  at  the  head  of  a  big  company'." 

"Careful,  sir!"  said  Stacey.  "Remember  that  anything 
you  say  may  be  used  against  you.  I  might  take  you  up 
on  that." 


44  The  Lonely  Warrior 

A  sudden  gleam  shone  in  Mr.  Carroll's  eyes.  "You  mean 
that?"  he  demanded. 

His  son  laughed.    "Don't  really  know  yet.    Maybe." 

"Not  going  back  into  architecture?  Not  enough  fight  in 
it  now,  eh  ?  Want  something  more  vigorous." 

"Well,"  said  Stacey,  "I'm  not  going  back  into  it,  architec- 
ture, at  once,  anyway.  Want  to  look  around  a  bit  first. 
Can't  say  that  I  really  know  what  my  reasons  are." 

His  answer  was  strictly  truthful.  He  did  not  know  his 
reasons — except  that  he  literally  couldn't  have  drawn  plans 
for  so  much  as  a  barn. 

His  father  nodded,  then,  catching  sight  of  a  man  who  was 
walking  briskly  along  the  sidewalk  of  the  street  down  which 
the  car  was  gliding,  told  the  chauffeur  to  stop,  and,  leaning 
out,  called :  "Colin !  Oh,  Colin !" 

It  was  Colin  Jeffries,  president  of  the  smelting  works, 
president  of  the  power  plant,  vice-president  and  dictator  of 
the  great  linseed  oil  mills,  head  of  a  dozen  corporations, 
donor  to  the  city  of  its  art  gallery  and  public  library,  Ver- 
non's  first  citizen.  A  man  of  fifty-five,  vigorous,  keen-eyed, 
clean-shaven  but  for  a  short  dark  moustache.  Not  at  all  like 
Mr.  Carroll  in  features.  As  like  him  as  one  pea  to  another 
in  expression. 

"My  son,  Colin.  Captain  Carroll.  You  remember  him. 
Just  got  back.  Wanted  you  to  shake  hands  with  him. 
D.  S.  C. — 'for  cool  leadership  and  conspicuous  bravery 
in  action.' " 

*'I  know,"  said  Mr.  Jeffries,  shaking  Stacey's  hand 
warmly  and  gazing  straight  into  his  eyes.  "Glad  to  see  you 
back,  my  boy.  Very  genuinely  glad.  Congratulations  aren't 
much,  but  you  have  them.  We  older  men,  who  couldn't  go, 
aren't  going  to  forget  what  you  young  men  did." 

"Thanks,"  said  Stacey,  considering  him  coolly.     It  oc- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  45 

curred  to  him  that  it  was  quite  right  of  Mr.  Jeffries  to  be 
grateful,  since  one  thing  the  young  men  had  done  was 
to  make  him  considerably  richer  than  formerly.  However, 
Stacey  did  not  think  this  with  any  bitterness,  or  accuse  the 
millionaire  of  a  self-interested  patriotism  or  of  anything  else. 
He  was  simply  no  longer — as  he  had  once  been — impressed 
by  the  legend  of  the  man.  He  merely  scrutinized  him  coldly 
from  outside  and  reserved  judgment. 

"There's  another  reason  we're  glad  to  have  you  back," 
Mr.  Jeffries  was  saying  gravely.  "You  young  men  have 
saved  the  country  from  one  danger.  We  count  on  you  to 
save  it  from  another.  You'll  find  probably  that  you've  got 
to  keep  on  saving  it.  Conditions  are  chaotic.  The  country's 
full  of  social  unrest.  You'll  see."  (Mr.  Carroll  nodded  as- 
sent emphatically.)  "Malignant  forces  are  at  work  secretly. 
It's  you  boys  of  the  American  Legion  who  will  be  the  great- 
est factor  for  good  in  the  country's  life  for  the  next  genera- 
tion. Rest  ?  You  won't  find  rest.  Do  you  want  it  ?" 

"Not  particularly,  Mr.  Jeffries,"  Stacey  replied  calmly. 

"Good !    Good  luck  to  you !" 

"Fine  man,  Colin!"  Mr.  Carroll  observed,  as  the  car 
moved  off  again.  "A  great  citizen  and  a  true  friend.  Not 
a  stain  on  his  reputation." 

Stacey  did  not  contradict  the  assertion,  even  inwardly. 
He  merely  reserved  judgment  and  was  not  especially  inter- 
ested in  what  the  result  of  it  would  be.  The  only  positive 
comment  he  passed  (to  himself)  was  that  Mr.  Jeffries  talked 
rather  like  an  orator  on  a  pl'atf  orm. 

"Oh,  by  Jove !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Carroll  suddenly,  "I  com- 
pletely forgot!  Selfish  of  me!  Marian  called  me  up  and 
asked  me  to  tell  you  that  she  woul'dn't  expect  you  to-night — 
said  she  realised  the  family  had  first  rights  to  you — but 
would  look  for  you  to-morrow  afternoon,  three-thirty. 


46  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Considerate  of  her,  though  hard  on  you  perhaps.  Nice  girl, 
Marian,  very !  Showed  uncommon  good  sense  in  not  com- 
ing to  the  station." 

But  Mr.  Carroll  would  have  been  dismayed  had  he  known 
the  effect  his  apologetic  explanatory  remarks  produced  upon 
his  son.  They  weighed  Stacey  down.  For  it  is  the  extraor- 
dinary truth  that  not  once  since  Stacey  descended  from  the 
train  had  the  thought  of  Marian  crossed  his  mind,  and  that 
to  have  it  recalled  to  him  now  was  burdensome. 

However,  he  recovered  quickly  from  the  sudden  feeling 
of  depression.  For,  being  totally  without  any  scheme  of 
life,  he  lived  from  day  to  day  and  met  problems  only  as  they 
arose.  Marian  was  to-morrow's  problem.  He  shook  it  off. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "It's  right  of  her.  Of  course  I 
want  this  evening  at  home  with  you." 

But  when  finally  they  were  at  home  Stacey  and  his  father 
found  little  to  say  to  each  other.  Mr.  Carroll  was  full  of 
the  nervous  restlessness  of  repressed  affection,  bustled 
about,  made  his  son  a  cocktail  (which  Stacey  drank  with 
relish),  and  finally  threw  himself  down  in  a  chair  and  lit  a 
cigar,  though  it  was  close  to  dinner  time. 

Stacey  was  more  self-possessed,  though  he  could  not  be 
entirely  self-possessed  in  this  house  where  all  the  edges  of 
things  and  thoughts  were  blurred  by  memories  out  of  child- 
hood. He  was  able  to  recognize  clearly,  with  no  more  than 
a  touch  of  sadness,  that  at  bottom  he  and  his  father  had 
little  in  common.  Stacey  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  expansive, 
communicative,  but  he  simply  could  not  be.  Besides,  he 
had  nothing  to  communicate. 

Yet,  if  Stacey  revealed  no  characteristic  for  which  he  may 
be  loved,  he  did  reveal'  one  for  which  he  may  be  admired : — • 
self-control.  For  when  his  father  asked  him,  almost  shyly, 
about  the  action  in  which  he  had  won  his  American  decora- 
tion, Stacey  told  the  story  of  it,  quietly,  artistically,  hand- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  47 

somely,  with  even  a  smile  on  his  lips,  as  one  might  tell  the 
story  of  Thermopylae  or  Bunker  Hill,  while  all  the  time 
his  eyes,  that  gazed  off  across  his  father's  shoulder,  were 
seeing  the  unendurable  picture  of  the  real  thing.  It  was 
an  achievement. 

When  the  tale  was  finished  the  older  man  drew  a  long 
breath.  "By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  mingled 
admiration  and  envy  showing  in  his  face.  "To  live  through 
moments  like  those!  Wonderful!  Moments  you'll  never 
forget!" 

But  Stacey,  who  had  risen  and  was  leaning  against  the 
empty  fire-place,  gave  an  odd  sound  like  a  strangled  laugh. 
He  crossed  the  room  to  a  tall  window,  flung  it  wide  open, 
and  surreptitiously  wiped  a  drop  of  perspiration  from  his 
forehead.  Then  he  turned  back. 

"Make  me  another  cocktail,  dad,"  he  said.  "Do!  We 
couldn't  get  gin  like  that  in  Italy." 

It  was  a  relief  to  Stacey  when  Julie  and  her  husband 
arrived.  For  he  craved  of  his  sister  now  precisely  what  had 
irked  him  in  her  formerly — her  apparent  absence  of  any 
inner  life  and  her  absorbed  occupation  with  externals.  If 
any  one  had  protested  that  she  probably  did  have  an  inner 
life  he  would  have  assented  cheerfully.  He  simply  did  not 
want  to  know  about  it  or  about  any  one  else's. 

The  Prouts  were  a  little  late  (Julie  was  always  a  little 
late)  and  Mr.  Carroll,  who  had  been  fidgeting  with  in- 
creasing exasperation,  greeted  his  daughter  wrathfully. 

"Confound  it,  Julie !  Can't  you  be  on  time  for  once  in  a 
way?  Isn't  it  as  easy  to  get  here  at  seven  as  at  seven-ten?" 

"Well,  now,  daddy,  it  wasn't  my  fault,"  said  Julie,  her 
voice  and  eyes  full  of  hurt  innocence,  while  her  husband 
grinned.  "I  was  all  ready  and  then  at  the  very  last 
moment — " 

"Pshaw !"  her  father  interrupted.    "If  only  you  wouldn't 


48  The  Lonely  Warrior 

always  have  an  excuse !  Come  on  in !  Everything  will  be 
cold,  of  course." 

And  such  things  put  Stacey  in  good  humor.  Indeed, 
among  them  he  enjoyed  himself  more  than  later  when  the 
first  two  courses  had  been  served  and  his  father  was  ready 
for  conversation. 

"Poor  Jimmy !"  Julie  was  saying.  "He  was  so  unhappy 
not  to  get  across !  After  he'd  gone  through  officers'  training 
camp  they  sent  him  to  Camp  Grant  and  just  kept  him  there 
the  whol'e  time.  He  was  so  mad,  weren't  you,  Jimmy?" 

"Well,"  said  her  husband  pleasantly,  "it  was  a  good  deal 
of  a  bore  to  go  through  all  that  training  and  then  never  have 
a  chance  to  use  it." 

"Oh,  it'll  come  in  handy  for  the  next  war,"  Stacey 
observed. 

"Oh,  Stacey!"  his  sister  cried,  "you  don't  think  there's 
going  to  be  another !" 

Stacey  laughed.  "I  was  only  trying  to  comfort  you,  Julie. 
Thought  from  the  way  you  spoke  you'd  like  to  give  Jimmy  a 
chance.  Just  think  of  it! — there  he'd  be  on  a  big  white 
horse,  waving  his  sword  and  charging  the  enemy,  with  all 
his  men  following  him  and  cheering  mao^ly !  Wouldn't  you 
like  that?" 

Jimmy  grinned  at  his  brother-in-law,  but  Julie  shook  her 
head  soberly,  though  perhaps  she  was  only  playing  at  being 
as  ingenuous  as  all  that. 

"No,"  she  said  firmly,"  I  wouldn't.  Jimmy  plays  a  good 
game  of  golf,  but  he's  no  use  at  all  on  a  horse — never  was. 
And  I  think  it  would  be  nice  enough — now — for  him  to  have 
got  across  and  have  had  a  medal,  like  you,  Stacey  dear,  so 
that  I  could  say :  'I  don't  think  you've  met  my  husband,  Mrs. 
Jones.  You  see,  he's  been  in  France  for  two  years.  Oh, 
yes,  D.  S.  C,  of  course !' — but  at  the  time  I  never  did  want 
him  to  go,  not  for  a  minute." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  49 

The  two  young  men  laughed  again.  Stacey  considered  his 
sister's  point  of  view  human,  straightforward  and  sensible. 
Where  was  the  good,  he  wondered  swiftly,  in  going  through 
a  lot  of  complicated  emotions,  since,  if  you  were  honest,  you 
always  ended  in  just  such  simplicity?  It  was  a  lot  better  to 
be  simple  in  the  first  place  and  stay  so. 

But  Mr.  Carroll,  who  was  in  the  midst  of  a  swallow  of 
claret,  gulped  suddenly,  choked,  and  set  his  glass  down  with 
a  bump.  "That,"  he  said  angrily,  "is  about  as  silly  and  weak 
and  unpatriotic  as  anything  I've  ever  heard  even  you  say, 
Julie!" 

"I  can't  help  it,  dad,"  Julie  returned  meekly.  "It's  the 
way  I  really  feel." 

"Then  you  should  keep  still'  about  it.  Nice  sort  of  part  we 
should  have  played  in  the  war  if  every  wife  had  taken  that 
attitude !" 

f  Stacey,  who  thought  his  sister  was  being  badly  scolded 
for  no  reason  at  all,  gave  her  a  sly  friendly  smile,  at  which 
her  face  brightened.  She  recovered  so  quickly,  indeed,  and 
her  husband  had  shown,  throughout,  such  absence  of  any 
discomfort,  that  Stacey  concluded  Julie  must  be  inured  to 
this  sort  of  harshness.  He  tried  to  remember  whether  his 
father  had  always  been  so  sharp  with  her,  but  couldn't. 

"Jimmy  would  have  had  his  chance,  no  doubt,"  Mr.  Car- 
roll remarked,  "if  the  war  had  lasted  a  few  months  longer, 
as  it  should  have."  He  frowned.  "I  believe,"  he  went  on 
solemnly,  "that  the  Armistice  will  prove  to  be  the  biggest 
disaster  the  world  has  ever  known."  And  he  looked  about 
him  fiercely. 

The  first  time  that  Stacey  had  heard  this  sentiment  ex- 
pressed (at  tea,  in  Rome,  at  the  house  of  an  elderly  Ameri- 
can gentleman  whom  every  one  cultivated  because  he  mys- 
teriously always  had  butter  and  sugar),  he  had  first  felt 
genuine  horror,  and  then  immediately  had  flown  into  a  white 


50  The  Lonely  Warrior 

ungovernable  rage  during  which  he  said  things  that  had 
reduced  the  kindly  old  gentleman,  who  was  used  to  having 
every  one  pleasant,  to  a  state  of  helpless  trembling  discom- 
fort. However,  by  now  Stacey  was  growing  used  to  the 
sentiment  (it  had  been  mentioned,  for  instance,  on  the  boat, 
and  the  smoking-room  of  the  Pullman  car  had  rung  with 
it).  It  no  longer  produced  in  him  any  emotion  save  a 
weary  scorn. 

"I'd  like  to  have  seen  the  Huns  get  a  taste  of  their  own 
medicine,"  Mr.  Carroll'  continued,  his  eyes  gleaming  beneath 
their  heavy  white  eyebrows.  "Only  a  month  or  two  more 
of  the  war  and  they'd  have  seen  their  soil  invaded,  their 
towns  in  flames,  and  the  Allies  would  have  marched  into 
Berlin.  Now  hear  them  talk!  They  don't  know  they're 
beaten !" 

"I  dare  say  they  suspected  it  when  they  handed  over  their 
fleet,"  said  Stacey  calmly. 

"You  don't  agree  with  me,  son?"  Mr.  Carroll  exd'aimed. 

Stacey  shook  his  head.  "It  would  have  cost  thousands  of 
lives  more,"  he  remarked,  helping  himself  to  almonds. 

"Not  so  many !    Not  so  many !"  his  father  insisted. 

"Some,"  said  Stacey.  "However,"  he  added  in  a  dry 
voice,  "to  do  our  leaders  justice,  I  don't  think  they  gave  that 
point  undue  importance.  The  truth  was  we'd  have  had  to 
pause  pretty  soon,  anyway.  Our  troops  were  fagged,  our 
lines  of  communication  were  impossibly  long,  and  we'd  shot 
off  most  of  our  ammunition.  A  pause  would  have  given 
the  Germans  a  chance  to  fall  back  on  a  nice  short  line  all 
prepared  for  them,  and  it  would  have  taken  another  tre- 
mendous battle  to  break  through  again, — and  there  was  win- 
ter already  upon  us." 

Mr.  Carroll  had  followed  his  son's  words  attentively. 
"Well,  of  course,"  he  said,  "that's  different.  I'm  not  a  mili- 
tary man  and  I  don't  pretend  to  have  become  an  expert 


The  Lonely  Warrior  51 

strategist,  like  most  of  my  friends  at  the  club.  They'll' 
amuse  you,  Stacey.  All  the  same,  it's  an  outrage  that  the 
Germans  should  get  off  scot-free." 

h  And  after  this  the  subject  of  the  war  was  dropped  for 
a  while. 

Julie  related  personal  gossip  agreeably,  and  Jimmy  Prout 
told  an  amusing  story  about  an  eccentric  client  of  his,  and 
Stacey  listened  with  interest  to  both  of  them,  but  he  ob- 
served that  his  father  did  not  listen.  Mr.  Carroll  did  pay 
his  son-in-law  a  perfunctory  semblance  of  attention,  but  he 
made  no  pretence  of  even  hearing  what  his  daughter  said. 
And  he  cut  short  her  account  of  a  country  club  feud  with  a 
sudden  irrelevant  remark  accompanied  by  an  impatient 
frown. 

"We  passed  Colin  Jeffries  on  the  way  home,  Jimmy,"  he 
said,  "and  stopped  to  speak  with  him.  He  said  a  few  words 
to  Stacey  about  the  rottenness  of  conditions  over  here 
to-day,  about  what  we've  all  got  to  face." 

Jimmy's  good-humored  countenance  became  sober.  He 
nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  pretty  fierce." 

But  Mr.  Carroll  had  turned  again  to  his  son.  "The  whole 
country's  full  of  social  unrest,"  he  went  on  angrily.  "You've 
no  idea,  Stacey.  All  the  lazy  worthless  Have-Nots  are  up 
in  arms  against  the  Haves,  and  our  damned  government 
pets  them  and  plays  right  into  their  hands.  Not  a  bit  of 
respect  for  the  men  who've  made  the  country  what  it  is. 
You'll  see." 

"I've  seen  something  of  it  abroad,"  Stacey  remarked. 
" What  do  you  expect  ?  You  have  four  years  and  a  half  of 
universal'  war  positively  guaranteed  to  turn  the  world  into 
heaven,  and  then  it  ends  with  the  world  even  less  heavenly 
than  before.  Of  course  you  get  unrest." 

He  had  spoken  idly  enough,  without  much  thought  as  to 
what  he  said,  save  that  he  exercised  care  not  to  plunge  into 


52  The  Lonely  Warrior 

the  question  truly,  but  he  was  not  really  apathetic ;  he  was 
curious  about  the  intensity  of  feeling  his  father  displayed. 

"No,  but  I'm  talking  about  definite,  concrete,  unjustifiable 
demonstrations  of  unrest,"  Mr.  Carroll  continued,  shaking 
off  generalities.  "Here  you  have  labor,  the  one  real  profiteer 
in  the  war,  getting  more  and  more,  more  than  it  ever  got, 
far  more  than  its  share,  yet  always  increasing  its  demands, 
always  doing  less  work.  Why,  it  takes  three  men  nowadays 
to  get  through  a  piece  of  work  that  one  man  could  do  a  few 
years  ago.  Bolshevism!  Sheer  Bolshevism!" 

Julie  bravely  ventured  a  remark.  "You  remember  Harry 
Baird,  Stacey?"  she  said,  with  a  littl'e  laugh.  "He's  a  con- 
tractor, you  know.  Well,  he  says  that  nearly  all  his  men 
drive  up  to  work  in  their  own  Fords." 

Stacey  laughed,  too,  though  he  kept  his  eyes  on  his 
father's  face.  Mr.  Carroll  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  his 
former  state  of  indignant  meditation. 

"Now  I  ask  you,"  Julie  concluded,  "what  more  do  they 
want?" 

"Why,"  Stacey  observed  lightly,  "they  probably  want  to 
drive  up  in  Packards.  You  see,  if  you've  had  power — that 
is  to  say,  if  you've  had  money — for  a  long  time,  you  don't 
much  care  whether  you  ride  around  in  a  Packard  or  a 
Ford—" 

"Oh,  I  care!"  Julie  broke  in.    "A  Ford  is  awfully  jolty." 

"Yes,  you  care  because  one  is  more  comfortable.  What  I 
mean  to  say  is  that  a  Packard  isn't  to  you  a  belligerent  sym- 
bol that  you're  as  good  as  anybody  else.  I  dare  say  it  is  to 
the  laborer." 

But  Mr.  Carroll  had  emerged  from  his  thoughts  and  was 
looking  at  Stacey  keenly.  "Son,"  he  said  soberly,  "you've 
done  your  duty  heroically.  You've  gone  through  a  tre- 
mendous ordeal  and  you've  gone  through  it  without  flinch- 
ing. Don't  go  back  on  what's  right  now,  will  you?  Keep 


The  Lonely  Warrior  53 

on  going  straight.  Don't  let  yourself  get  infected  with 
Bolshevism.  You're  not,  are  you?" 

Stacey  considered  his  father  thoughtfully  and  with  a  faint 
but  genuine  sadness — almost  the  only  touch  of  a  soft  emo- 
tion he  had  felt  since  his  arrival.  For,  though  his  remarks 
to  Julie  had  been  careless  and  superficial,  they  had  just 
grazed  the  outside  of  something  in  which  he  really  believed, 
as  much  as  he  believed  in  anything.  And  it  was  precisely 
these  remarks  which  had  alarmed  Mr.  Carroll.  Stacey  could 
not  make  his  father  out,  and  still  less  did  he  make  himself 
out,  but,  whatever  his  father  was,  and  whatever  he  himself 
was,  it  was  clear  that  an  impassable  gulf  lay  between  them. 
They  had  nothing  in  common  save  affection  and  memories. 

Therefore,  when  he  answered  his  father,  he  did  so  as 
gently  and  circumspectly  as  the  truth  (his  one  remaining 
god)  would  permit;  which  was  rare,  since  in  general  he  was 
careless  enough  of  others'  feelings. 

"Why,  no,  dad,"  he  said  slowly,  smiling  at  his  father,  "I 
don't  believe  I'm  tainted  with  Bolshevism.  I  know  almost 
nothing  about  it  and  don't  trust  what  I  do  know.  Propa- 
ganda for,  propaganda  against, — that's  all  we're  getting ;  not 
facts.  In  so  far  as  I  can  make  out  the  theory  I  don't  like  it 
— too  crushing  for  the  individual.  What  we  want  is  more 
individualism  than  before  the  war,  not  less.  But  I  think  it's 
a  mistake  to  hate  a  word,  because  hate  reveals  fear.  One 
ought  not  to  be  afraid  of  anything.  Now  you've  probably 
got  all  kinds  of  unrest  over  here,  just  as  everywhere  else. 
Some  of  it,  I  dare  say,  is  right,  some  wrong — mere  abuse  of 
power.  Well,  nobody  ever  yet  had  power  without  abusing 
it.  The  teachers  in  your  schools,  the  professors  in  your  col- 
leges, the  salaried  clerks  in  your  offices,  are  restless,  poor 
things !  as  well  as  the  laborers  in  your  factories  and  the  men 
who  deliver  your  coal'.  What  I'm  trying  to  say  is  that  these 
are  all  different  kinds  of  restlessness.  Don't  go  and  lump 


54  The  Lonely  Warrior 

them  together  and  give  them  a  name  and  then  shudder  or 
get  angry  at  it.  You're  drilling  your  enemies  that  way, 
handing  them  out  a  uniform,  and  urging  a  lot  of  your 
friends  to  join  them." 

"There's  a  lot  in  what  you  say,  Stacey,"  said  Jimmy 
Prout.  "We've  enough  enemies  without  adding  to  them  un- 
necessarily. I'm  all  for  the  school'  teachers  myself." 

As  for  Mr.  Carroll,  he  had  sat  silently  gnawing  at  his 
gray  moustache  during  Stacey's  discourse,  and  he  remained, 
now  that  it  was  over,  still  appearing  to  reflect  upon  it.  But 
at  the  sound  of  a  sharp  pop  behind  him  he  started,  shook  his 
head  as  though  to  rid  himself  of  troubles,  and  watched  the 
champagne  being  poured  into  his  glass. 

"Good!"  he  cried,  with  a  smil'e  that  softened  his  firm 
handsome  face,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "Here's  to  Stacey, 
D.  S.  O.,  D.  S.  C,  and  my  son !  Thank  God,  he  back's  home 
again,  with  his  duty  accomplished!" 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  evening,  pleasant  as  it  was,  left  Stacey  with  a  feeling 
of  emptiness.  When  he  had  finally  said  good  night  to  his 
father  and  gone  upstairs  to  his  own  study  he  wandered  about 
it  restlessly,  smoking  cigarettes  and  staring  blankly  at  one 
after  another  of  the  objects  with  which  he  had  once  affec- 
tionately filled  it.  Everything  and  every  one,  he  said  to 
himself,  were  just  the  same — or  almost.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable. He  had  gone  through  something  that  had  de- 
stroyed every  particle  of  his  former  self,  and  now  he  came 
back  to  just  what  he  had  left.  Not,  he  reflected,  that  he 
wanted  his  people  changed,  certainly  not  in  the  way  he  was 
changed — whatever  that  was.  What  the  devil  did  he  want? 

Well,  for  one  thing,  he  would  rather  like  to  be  able  to  feel 
a  little  more.  Toward  Phil  and  Catherine  Blair,  for  example. 
He  knew  that  he  had  treated  them  badly.  What  sort  of 
gratitude  had  he  returned  them  for  their  open-hearted  wel- 
come? He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  couldn't  help  it.  It 
was  all  he  had  felt. 

Nevertheless,  even  though  only  intellectually,  he  was 
sorry.  And  all  at  once  he  found  something  he  could  do 
about  it,  and  felt  immediate  relief.  To  do  something  had 
become  his  sole  means  of  relief  in  any  situation.  He  sat 
down  at  the  desk  in  his  study  and  drew  out  paper  and  ink. 

Then  he  paused  for  a  moment,  reflecting.  Of  course 
he  might  be  mistaken  about  it.  Phil'  might  be  prospering. 
He  remembered  that  he  hadn't  even  asked.  But  he  shook 
his  head.  No,  the  signs  were  clear  enough.  And,  if  he  was 
mistaken,  it  would  anyway  do  no  harm  to  write.  He 

55 


56  The  Lonely  Warrior 

dashed  off  the  brief  letter  at  once,  never  pausing  for  the 
best  word  or  expression. 

"'Pear  Phil:  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  under  present 
building  conditions  you  might  be  having  rather  a  struggle 
of  it  on  your  own  in  New  York.  I'm  writing  to  know 
whether  you  would  consider  coming  out  here  for  a  time — 
or  permanently,  if  you  can  stand  the  place.  I  think  I  could 
find  you  a  job  with  my  old  firm.  You'd  be  a  great  acqui- 
sition for  them,  you'd  bring  a  little  more  vulgarity  into  our 
— what's  the  word? — etiolated  architecture,  and  you  could 
live  through  this  difficult  and  expensive  period  without 
worrying  about  how  to  make  both  ends  meet.  Of  course  I 
know  what  your  independence  means  to  you,  and  I  may  be 
all  wrong  in  assuming  that  you  would  consider  abandoning 
it  temporarily;  but  I  figure  that  when  the  difficulty  of  exist- 
ence passes  a  certain  mark  it  becomes  absorbing  to  the  point 
of  destroying  most  of  one's  real  life,  and  that  this  mark  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  passed  by  any  young  man  trying  to  be  an 
architect  on  his  own  in  New  York  City  to-day. 

"I'll  add  a  postscript  to-morrow  morning  after  I've  seen 
Parkins  (the  head  of  my  firm). 

"Good  night. 

"Yours, 

"Stacey." 

Stacey  glanced  the  letter  through  swiftly,  folded  and 
addressed  it,  and  laid  it  on  the  desk. 

Then  he  went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep  at  once. 

Waking  early  the  next  morning  he  did  not  lie  still 
through  those  moments  of  delicious  indolence  in  which 
most  men  indulge  themselves,  but  slipped  out  of  bed  imme- 
diately and  into  his  cold  bath. 

His  body  responded  to  the  shock  glowingly.     It  was 


The  Lonely  Warrior  57 

magnificently  fit.  The  muscles  of  his  back  and  abdomen 
rippled  smoothly  as  he  rubbed  himself  with  the  rough 
towel.  One  would  justly  have  admired  Stacey  as  a  healthy 
handsome  animal.  And  it  may  be  that  his  obstinate  dis- 
taste for  speculation,  his  barely  conscious,  undeliberate 
desire  to  avoid  thought,  arose  out  of  his  animal  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  was  but  the  deep  determination  not  to 
allow  his  strong  sane  body  to  be  affected  by  his  sick  and 
twisted  mind. 

He  took  from  the  closet  a  pre-war  suit  of  his,  a  soft 
gray,  civilian  suit,  and  in  regarding  it  felt  a  keener  joy  than 
he  had  felt  in  stepping  off  the  steamer  or  in  seeing  Phil 
and  Catherine  or  in  drinking  champagne  last  evening — a 
keener  joy,  alas,  than  he  felt  when  he  had  donned  the 
clothes ;  for  they  did  not  seem  natural  and  easy  to  his  mili- 
tarized body. 

Then  he  went  downstairs  and  out  of  doors  into  the  well- 
kept  garden.  It  was  still  only  seven  o'clock  and  nobody 
was  about — not  even  his  father,  who  was  an  early  riser. 

But  Mr.  Carroll'  did  presently  appear.  "Well,  you  are 
changed,  Stacey!"  he  called  jovially,  as  he  drew  near 
through  the  tall  rose  bushes.  "Seems  to  me  I  remember  the 
time  when  for  you  to  get  down  to  eight  o'clock  breakfast 
was — hello!"  And  he  surveyed  his  son  critically.  "Back 
in  civilian  clothes  already,  eh?"  he  observed  meditatively. 
"Well,  that's  right,  I  suppose.  You  are  a  civilian  again,  of 
course.  And  I  don't  think  much  of  these  lads  who  go 
flaunting  their  uniforms  about  for  months  after  they're 
out  of  the  service,  determined  to  wring  the  last  drop  of 
credit  from  their  performance  of  duty.  Still  .  .  ."  He 
paused.  "Well,"  he  concluded  cheerfully,  "there's  one  thing. 
You  can  put  on  all  the  civilian  clothes  you  like,  but  nobody 
with  half  an  eye  would  be  deceived.  You  don't  look  like  a 
civilian.  You  look  like  a  soldier." 


58  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Damn  it  all !"  said  Stacey,  exasperated,  "I  know  I  do." 

His  father  laughed.  "Come  on  in  to  breakfast.  Do 
you  still1  eat  that  idiotic  excuse  for  a  meal  you  used  to—- 
coffee and  two  bites  of  a  roll?" 

"No,"  said  Stacey,  "I  eat  bacon,  eggs,  fish — anything  I 
get." 

"By  Jove,  you  have  improved!"  Mr.  Carroll  exclaimed, 
with  another  laugh. 

After  breakfast  Stacey  drove  into  town  with  his  father, 
but  left  him  at  the  door  of  the  Carroll  Building  and 
walked  briskly  along  the  street  until  he  came  to  the  build- 
ing in  which  Parkins  and  May,  the  architects  with  whom 
he  had  worked  before  the  war,  had  their  offices. 

He  was  asked  his  business  formally  by  the  office-boy, 
new  since  his  time,  but  waved  him  aside  and  opened  the 
door  of  Mr.  Parkins's  private  room  a  little  way. 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Parkins.  "Oh,  by  the  Lord!  it's  Stacey 
Carroll !  Come  in !  Come  in !"  he  cried,  rising  and  holding 
out  his  hand. 

Stacey  was  pleased  at  the  welcome.  There  exists  be- 
tween people  who  have  worked  hard  together  a  camara- 
derie, approaching  affection,  but  pleasanter  since  it  makes 
no  demands  on  expression.  Stacey  felt  it  for  the  men  of 
his  battalion;  he  had  forgotten  that  he  felt  it  for  any  one 
else.  The  rediscovery  was  a  small  pleasant  surprise.  He 
shook  the  architect's  hand  cordially. 

"Of  course  I  saw  by  the  paper  this  morning  that  you 
were  back,"  Mr.  Parkins  was  saying,  "but  I'm  blessed  if  I 
expected  you  to  get  around  here  to-day." 

"Thought  I'd  drop  in,"  said  Stacey,  collapsing  lightly 
into  a  chair.  "How  are  you?"  And  he  scrutinized  the 
older  man's  shrewd  clean-shaven  face,  which  showed 
around  the  eyes  little  worried  wrinkles,  brought  there  by 


The  Lonely  Warrior  $9 

the  perpetual  endeavor  to  reconcile  clients'  ideas  with  some 
modicum  of  architectural  consistency. 

"Pretty  well !  Pretty  well !"  Mr.  Parkins  replied.  "These 
have  been  lean  years,  as  you  know.  No  building  to  speak 
of.  But  we've  got  all  we  can  do  again  now  and  more  too, 
even  though  the  cost  of  material  and  labor  is  so  high  you'd 
think  it  would  be  prohibitive.  But  a  good  many  people 
have  made  a  good  deal  of  money,  and,  after  all,  houses 
have  got  to  be  built.  There  aren't  enough  to  go  round.  [We 
surely  can  use  you,  Stacey." 

"H'm!"  said  Stacey.  "Sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  I'm 
out  of  the  running  for  a  while.  Not  coming  back." 

"You're  not!  Oh,  now,  look  here!  May  and  I  talked 
it  over  and  decided  we'd  offer  you  a  junior  partnership 
right  off  the  bat,  and  now  you — what's  wrong  ?" 

"You're  awfully  kind,"  said  Stacey,  "but  honestly  I  can't 
— and  I  swear  I  don't  know  why.  I  give  you  my  word  I 
couldn't  draw  plans  for  a — bill-board  at  present." 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

"Sorry!"  Stacey  remarked.  "But  that's  the  way  it  is." 
He  smiled  ironically.  "All  this  returned-soldier-restless- 
ness  stuff,  you  know." 

Mr.  Parkins  considered  him  closely.  "Now  what  have 
you  gone  and  done  to  yourself  ?"  he  observed  at  last.  "You 
look  like  Stacey  Carroll,  yet  you  don't  seem  quite  like  him. 
I  believe,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "I  really  believe  I'm  half 
afraid  of  you.  You're  a — " 

"Little  changeling,  yes,"  said  Stacey,  bored.  "Now  listen, 
Mr.  Parkins,"  he  went  on  quickly.  "There's  something  I 
want  to  ask  you  to  do  for  me.  It'll  be  a  favor  to  me  and 
a  good  turn  to  yourself  at  the  same  time."  And  he  stated 
Philip  Blair's  case,  without  mentioning  his  name. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Parkins  thoughtfully,  "it  might  be  done, 


60  The  Lonely  Warrior 

of  course.  We'll  need  a  new  man,  since  you're  not  coming 
back  for  now — confound  you!  But  what  we  need  is  a 
good  safe  man.  Is  your  friend — what's  his  name,  by  the 
way?" 

"Philip  Blair." 

Mr.  Parkins  uttered  an  exclamation.  "Oh,  I've  seen  his 
work!"  he  said.  "Happened  on  a  perfect  wonder  of  a 
library  he  did  in  a  small  New  York  town.  The  villagers 
disliked  it  immensely.  I  asked  about  him  afterward.  He's 
the  real  thing ;  but  the  idea  of  your  recommending  him  to 
me  as  a  safe  man!  It's  outrageous!" 

"He'll  be  as  safe  as  you  like,"  Stacey  insisted.  "Five 
years  of  what  he's  been  trying  to  do  would  have  crushed 
the  danger  out  of  an  anarchist.  Try  him." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Parkins,  "I  will.  I'll  try  him,  because 
I  think  it's  a  shame  a  man  like  that  should  be  so  hard 
pressed,  but  I  know  I'm  making  a  mistake.  You  can  write 
Blair  that  if  he  wants  to  come  I'll  give  him  twenty-five 
hundred  a  year  on  a  year's  trial." 

An  odd  spasm  contracted  Stacey's  features,  but  passed 
at  once.  "Oh,  but  I  say,"  he  protested,  in  a  dead  emotion- 
less voice,  "you  were  giving  me  four  thousand  before  the 
war!" 

Mr.  Parkins  shook  his  head.  "I'll  make  it  three  thou- 
sand, but  not  a  cent  beyond,"  he  said  firmly.  "Philip 
Blair's  a  genius.  A  genius  isn't  worth  more  than  three 
thousand  to  me." 

Stacey  laughed.    "I  like  the    implication,"  he  observed. 

So  he  added  a  postscript  to  his  letter  and  sent  it  off  to 
Phil. 

At  three-thirty  precisely  Stacey  was  at  Marian's  house. 
He  knew  he  had  a  problem  to  face,  since  it  was  unfortu- 
nately true  that  he  had  no  love  left  for  Marian  and  did  not 
desire  to  marry  either  her  or  any  one  else.  But  he  had  no 


The  Lonely  Warrior  61 

plan  and  he  had  not  said  to  himself  that  he  would  not  marry 
her.  He  had  not  said  anything  at  all  to  himself.  He  merely 
went  to  her  house  as  per  schedule.  All  that  he  felt  was  a 
sense  of  something  burdensome — and  just  a  little  faint 
curiosity.  After  all,  he  had  loved  this  girl  once  upon  a 
time.  That  was  it.  "Once  upon  a  time"  exactly  expressed 
it.  It  was  the  way  you  began  fairy-tales. 

He  was  relieved,  if  so  slender  an  emotion  can  be  called 
relief,  that  it  was  not  Marian  who  opened  the  door  of  the 
house  to  him.  He  had  been  a  little  afraid  that  Marian 
herself  would  welcome  him  with  an  impetuous  rush.  But 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  maid — and  not  even  the  one  the 
Latimers  had  had  in  the  ol'd  days,  at  which  also  Stacey 
somehow  felt  relief. 

He  went  into  the  drawing-room,  hoping  to  find  Mrs. 
Latimer  there ;  for,  besides  feeling  that  her  presence  would 
put  off  the  demand  for  emotional  moments,  he  really  did 
want  to  see  her.  But  she  was  not  there.  The  room  was 
empty. 

He  went  over  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire-place 
and  looked  around  him,  an  odd  smile  drawing  at  one  corner 
of  his  mouth.  For  again  he  was  feeling  the  weak  futile 
tug  of  old  discarded  emotions.  These  vases  and  chairs  and 
statuettes,  the  whole  familiar  setting  of  the  room,  reminded 
him  of  what  he  had  once  felt  in  their  presence;  which  is 
the  same  as  saying :  what  he  had  once  been.  Stacey  was  like 
a  boat  floating  on  the  water,  almost  solitary,  almost  loose, 
but  not  quite ;  still  attached  by  a  frayed  cord  or  two  to  his 
old  self. 

But  the  portieres  at  one  end  of  the  room  were  parted 
gently,  and  Marian  stood  between  them. 

Stacey  caught  the  soft  sound  and  saw  her  at  once.  But, 
as  he  gazed  at  her,  he  continued  to  smile  the  same  smile. 

Nevertheless,  what  he  felt  was  mixed.    He  was  straight- 


62  The  Lonely  Warrior 

iorwardly  contemptuous  of  her  melodramatic  behavior,  un- 
expectedly struck  by  her  fine  beauty,  and  stirred  uneasily 
by  memories. 

Well,  that  half  pleasurable  discomfort  is  all  that  most 
long-parted  lovers  truly  feel  on  meeting  again,  no  matter 
how  earnestly  in  letters  they  may  have  lashed  their  old 
emotion  to  keep  it  awake.  But,  since,  even  though  changed, 
they  are  still  they,  the  discomfort  readily  grows  again  to 
love  in  the  renewed  proximity. 

Not  with  Stacey.  He  was  no  longer  Stacey  Carroll,  1914. 
He  was  a  different  person.  His  discomfort  faded,  flickered 
and  went  out — all  in  the  brief  moment  of  silence. 

"You  certainly  are  beautiful,  Marian,"  he  said  appreci- 
atively, but  without  moving. 

"Well,"  she  returned,  with  a  rippl'e  of  laughter,  "I'm  glad 
you  still  think  so— and  feel  so  sure  of  it."  She  moved 
slowly  forward  a  few  steps,  toward  him. 

His  mind  was  quite  clear  now  and  working  swiftly.  He 
thought  rapidly  that  five  years  ago  this  demeanor  of 
Marian's  would  have  set  his  heart  to  throbbing  with  delight. 
He  would  have  likened  Marian  to  a  shy,  half  tamed  bird, 
fond  yet  afraid  of  being  caught.  What  an  idiot  he  had 
been !  To-day  he  coldly  found  her  behavior  absurdly 
affected.  All  these  little  airs  and  graces!  Fiddlesticks! 
But,  far  more  strongly  than  admiration  of  Marian's  beauty 
and  cool  scorn  of  her  coquetry,  Stacey  was  feeling  elation, 
because  it  was  now  obvious  to  him  that  she  did  not  love 
him,  probably  had  never  loved  him.  Frank  love  would  not 
accord  with  these  mincing  ways. 

Yet  with  all  this  only  a  few  seconds  of  silence  elapsed. 

Stacey  crossed  the  room  to  a  divan  and  threw  himself 
down  easily  into  one  corner  of  it.  "Come  on  over  here, 
Marian,"  he  said  comfortably. 

She  stood  still  and  looked  at  him,  half  archly,  half  in  a 


The  Lonely  Warrior  63 

puzzled  way.  "Stacey,  you  are — you  are  the  most  ardent 
lover!"  she  exclaimed. 

"And  you !"  he  retorted  calmly.  "Let's  sit  down  and  talk 
over  our  passion." 

Marian  flushed  and  gave  something  like  a  pettish  stamp 
of  her  small  foot.  "I  won't !"  she  cried. 

"Then  don't !"  he  returned,  with  a  laugh. 

However,  she  seemed  to  think  better  of  it,  for  she  did 
come  slowly  to  the  couch  and  perched  herself  on  the  end 
opposite  Stacey.  She  sat  there  gazing  at  him,  one  foot  on 
the  upholstery,  elbow  on  knee,  her  small  pointed  chin  resting 
in  her  cupped  hand. 

Stacey,  still  smiling,  considered  her.  "You're  perfect  like 
that,"  he  said  sincerely.  "Some  Greek  sculptor  of  the 
Fourth  Century — no,  the  Third — ought  to  have  carved  you." 

"Stacey,  don't  you  love  me  any  longer  ?"  she  asked  softly. 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

She  started  up.  "You're  horrid!"  she  cried  furiously. 
"Each  time  that  I  ask  you  a  question  you  ask  me  one  in 
return.  I've  waited  for  you — nearly  five  years — and  this 
afternoon  I  looked  forward  to  your  coming  and  sent  every- 
body out  of  the  house,  and  then  when  you  come  you  look 
at  me  as  though  I  were  an  objet  d'art  and  laugh  at  me — 
laugh  coldly  at  me !" 

"Not  at  you,"  Marian,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  couldn't  laugh 
at  you.  I  find  I  don't  know  you  at  all.  Come !  Forgive  me 
for  being  rude.  Let's  talk  everything  over  soberly." 

She  sat  down  again  and  looked  at  him  hostilely.  "I  see 
now  why  you  didn't  write  oftener,"  she  said  haughtily.  "I 
thought  it  was  because  you  were  too  busy.  Fancy !" 

"No,  you  don't  see,"  he  replied,  "and  it's  difficult  for 
me  to  explain,  because  I  don't  understand  very  well'  my- 
self. Also  the  subject's  distasteful  to  me.  But  I  owe  it  to 
you  to  try  to  explain." 


64  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"I  think  you  do,"  she  said  icily. 

He  nodded,  unimpressed  by  her  tone.  "It's  like  this,"  he 
went  on,  with  an  effort.  "You've  got  to  see  me  straight.1 
And  if  I'm  brutal,  why,  so  much  the  better  for  you.  I'm 
not  only  not  the  laurel-crowned  knight  of  your  flattering 
princess's  fancy.  I'm  not  even  the  person  I  really  was 
before  I  went  away.  Every  bit  of  sweetness  and  light 
has  been  burned  out  of  me.  I  don't  get  delicate  soft  sen- 
sations out  of  anything  any  more.  The  overtones  that  you 
love  don't  exist  for  me.  Nothing  has  any  glamour.  All  I 
can  see  in  life  is  a  mess  of  bare  conflicting  facts,  stark 
naked." 

Stacey  had  forgotten  Marian.  His  eyes  glowed  and  there 
was  a  stern  beauty  in  his  face.  Yet  he  was  only  leaning  ab- 
horrently over  the  upper  edge  of  the  well'.  He  missed 
almost  everything  of  importance. 

While  he  spoke,  the  girl's  features  had  lost  their  expres- 
sion of  chill  aloofness.  Her  lips  were  parted  now,  and  she 
gazed  at  him  as  though  fascinated. 

"And  if  I  tell  you  that  I  don't  1'ove  you,"  he  concluded 
fiercely,  "I  can  honestly  swear  that  it's  just  that  I  don't — 
can't — love  any  one  or  anything.  My  saying  so  shouldn't 
hurt  anything  but  your  pride,  because  you  don't  love  me, 
either." 

She  leaned  toward  him  ever  so  little.  "How  do  you 
know  I  don't  love  you?"  she  demanded  softly. 

"Because  you  create  a  setting,  pl'ay  a  game,  surround  our 
meeting  with  little  tricks,"  he  returned,  quite  unmoved  by 
her  coaxing  grace. 

She  gazed  at  him  intently,  her  breath  coming  and  going 
rapidly.  "Then  you  don't — you  truly  don't— even  want  to 
kiss  me?"  she  asked. 

He  returned  her  gaze.  Her  coquetry  did  not  stir  him; 
her  beauty  did.  "Yes,"  he  said  somberly,  "of  course  I  do ! 


The  Lonely  Warrior  65 

But  not  because  I  find  you  shy  and  alluring.  I  don't.  Just 
because  you're  beautiful  and  desire's  a  fact." 

He  seized  her  small  wrists  and  drew  her  toward  him 
slowl'y.  She  struggled  fiercely  at  first,  but  then,  when  her 
face  was  close  to  his,  yielded  suddenly  and  returned  his 
kiss, 

"Now  don't  you  love  me,  Stacey?"  she  murmured. 

"No !"  he  cried,  releasing  her.    "Nor  you  me !" 

She  rose  and  smoothed  her  hair. 

"You  look  precisely  like  a  Tanagra,"  he  said  admiringly. 

"If  you  say  anything  more  of  that  sort,"  she  burst  out, 
"I  shall  hate  you!" 

"You'll  do  that,  anyway,"  he  replied. 

She  gazed  at  him  strangely,  an  expression  of  cruelty  in 
her  fine  mouth.  "Ames  Price  has  been  imploring  me — for 
two  years  now — to  marry  him,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  think 
I'll  do  it.  Would  you  mind,  Stacey?" 

He  winced.  "Mind?  Of  course  I'd  mind!  Animal 
jealousy,  too,  is  a  fact — nasty  fact  like  all  the  rest  of  them! 
But  go  ahead  and  marry  him  if  you'll  be  happy  with  him." 

Her  eyes  shone  for  a  moment  with  triumph.  Then  she 
laughed  musically.  "What  a  weird  afternoon!"  she  ob- 
served, and  pressed  a  bell  in  the  wall.  "Come !  Let's  have 
tea.  You're  quite  Byronic,  Stacey !" 

Well,  she  was  a  sentimentalist,  no  doubt,  but  she  was  no 
fool,  Stacey  admitted  to  himself.  Come  to  think  of  it,  he 
was  being  Byronic  in  his  intense  antagonistic  desire  to  stand 
alone,  freed  from  all  ties. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MR.  LATIMER  was  talking,  although  it  was  early  afternoon 
and  therefore  not  his  best  hour. 

"The  supreme  importance  of  the  arts,"  he  said,  "is  poise. 
There  is  no  poise  in  life  itself.  Life  is  mere  tumult  and 
shouting.  And  since  there  is  no  poise  there  is  no  meaning. 
The  arts  hover  above  the  hurly-burly,  dipping  down  into  it 
a  little  for  delicate  nourishment,  but  no  more  of  it  than  a 
cloud,  which  sucks  its  constituent  vapor  from  the  earth, 
is  of  the  earth.  In  the  country  of  the  arts  there  is  quiet. 
That  is  to  say,"  he  added  drily,  "there  was.  The  arts  at 
the  moment  have  ceased  to  exist,  and  with  them  has 
vanished  all  that  we  possessed  of  value." 

"No  doubt,"  Stacey  assented  politely. 

But  the  beautifully  enunciated  phrases  really  gave  him 
a  feeling  of  contempt  for  Mr.  Latimer.  And  he  wondered 
how  he  could  ever  have  admired  this  polished  esthete.  His 
glance  wandered  to  Marian  (the  only  other  person  in  the 
room,  her  mother  being  out  somewhere)  who  was  curled 
up  in  a  large  chair  on  the  other  side  of  her  father.  Stacey 
considered  the  girl's  face  attentively.  She  stirred  him  by 
her  beauty,  especially  when  seen  thus,  motionless,  carved; 
yet  left  him,  when  everything  was  summed  up,  feeling  ac- 
tively hostile. 

Mr.  Latimer  had  taken  a  small  vase  from  the  mantel- 
shelf and  was  toying  with  it  abstractedly. 

"Leisure,"  he  remarked,  "is  anathema  to  Americans. 
Yet  leisure  is  all  there  is  of  importance.  It  is  what  all  men 
strive  to  attain  through  labor,  but,  having  attained,  are  in- 

66 


The  Lonely  Warrior  67 

Capable  of  supporting.  It  is  too  noble  for  their  tawdry 
energetic  minds,  and  they  hasten  to  fill  it  up  with  meaning- 
less movement.  They  even,  I  am  told,  go  to  witness  what 
they  call  'photo-plays/  where,  though  themselves  sitting 
still,  they  can  enjoy  a  vicarious  restlessness  and  be  saved 
from  the  leisure  they  dread.  How  false  an  understanding 
of  life,  or,  rather,  what  complete  lack  of  any  understanding ! 
The  goal  of  life  itself  is,  after  all,  just  the  eternal  leisure 
of  the  grave." 

"An  admirable  epigram,"  said  Stacey,  with  no  hint  of  ex- 
pression in  his  face.  "I  cannot  make  out  whether  it  be- 
longs spiritually  in  the  eighteenth  century  or  in  the  nineties 
of  the  last  century." 

"In  any  case  it  does  not  belong  in  the  twentieth,"  Mr. 
Latimer  returned,  a  touch  of  irascibility  in  his  voice.  "Nor 
do  I."  He  set  the  vase  down  almost  with  a  bump.  "I  must 
go,"  he  said.  "I  have  an  appointment,  and  here  in  America 
every  one  is  always  on  time."  And  he  left  them. 

Marian  uncurled  herself  gracefully.  "Papa  is  cross," 
she  observed,  with  a  laugh.  "It  is  only  three  o'clock,  you 
see.  He  does  not  approve  of  early  afternoon.  Let's  go  to 
the  library,  Stacey.  I  don't  like  this  room."  And  she 
danced  off  up  the  stairs,  he  following. 

She  half  knelt  on  a  window-seat  in  the  library  and  gazed 
out,  her  mood  seeming  to  change  suddenly  from  hard  to 
soft. 

"The  clouds  drift  and  drift,"  she  said  dreamily.  "And 
sometimes  they're  majestic  and  white  with  purple  shadows, 
as  now,  and  sometimes  they're  black  and  terrible,  and 
sometimes  mere  little  pale  ghosts  of  clouds.  But  they're 
always  clouds.  They  haven't  anything  to  do  with  real 
majesty  or  terror  or  ghosts.  (Can  one  say  'real  ghosts,' 
Stacey?)  Only  clouds.  They  just  drift  and  drift.  I 
think  I'd  like  to  be  a  cloud." 


68  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Why  shouldn't  you  want  to?"  he  observed  callously, 
"It's  your  father's  theory  all  over  again." 

She  whirled  around,  her  face  mischievous.  "Oh,  how 
'funny  you  are,  Stacey !  You  won't  care  for  me  any  more. 
You'll  damn  anything  I  do  or  say.  You're  an  enemy,  out 
and  out, — oh,  yes,  you  are!  Yet  you'd  be  glad  enough  to 
kiss  me  this  very  minute." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  angrily. 

"But  you're  not  going  to,"  she  said,  with  haughtiness. 
"Not  now  or  ever."  She  smiled.  "Ames  Price  is  coming  to 
see  me  to-night.  Shall  I  let  him  kiss  me?  It  would  make 
him  so  happy.  I  think  it's  my  duty  to.  Come!  Let's  sit 
down  and  talk  of  duty,  Stacey." 

And  so  she  kept  it  up,  as  full  of  witchery  as  Circe,  daz- 
zling in  the  bright  rapid  flash  of  her  moods,  swift  and 
lovely  as  a  swallow,  soft  at  one  moment  and  clouded, — * 
brilliant  and  gemlike  the  next. 

Yet,  through  it  all,  Stacey,  though  he  talked  freely 
enough,  was  cold,  distant  and  bored.  He  was  like  a  man 
idly  watching  a  sorceress  draw  circles  and  pentagons  in  the 
sand  and  murmur  incantations.  No  spirits  responded.  No 
enchantment  ensued.  It  was  merely  laborious  lines  and 
words,  silly  child's  play.  The  only  thing  that  interested  him 
• — a  little — in  the  performance  was  the  question  of  whether 
or  not  it  was  deliberate. 

Stacey  had  continued  to  go  daily  to  see  Marian.  He  re- 
mained unmoved  by  almost  everything  in  her  that  had 
formerly  delighted  him.  There  was  no  longer  any  magic, 
any  mystery.  Yet  he  desired  to  be  near  her.  Something  she 
did  give  him.  But  as  to  what  it  was  he  did  not  inquire. 

It  was  a  strange  relationship,  but  it  is  possible  that 
Marian  found  it  piquant.  She  seemed  fascinated  by  Stacey, 
now  that  he  was  indifferent  to  her. 

At  last  the  girl  sank  lightly  down  upon  an  ottoman  near 


THe  Lonely  Warrior  '69 

the  young  man's  feet  and  gazed  up  at  him,  as  on  that  day 
years  before  when  he  had  come  to  tell  her  he  was  going 
to  the  war. 

"You're  the  oddest  person,  Stacey!"  she  said,  her  eyes 
shining.  "Just  like  a  great  rock — a  handsome  rock.  Why 
do  you  come  to  see  me?  You  don't  need  to,  you  know. 
You've  broken  our  engagement — and  my  heart,"  she  con- 
tinued elfishly.  "I  shall  tell  every  one  that  you  have.  It 
will  be  in  the  newspapers.  'Returned  Hero  Breaks  Girl's 
Heart!'" 

This  was  better.  There  was  something  cool  and  hard 
in  this  that  appealed  to  Stacey,  wakened  a  sense  of  surface 
comradeship  in  him. 

"H'm !"  he  remarked,  smiling.  "Your  heart  seems  to  be 
doing  pretty  well — if  you've  got  one.  Have  you  got  one, 
Marian  ?" 

"That's  a  horrid  habit  you've  acquired,  Stacey,"  she  said 
gaily,  "of  never  answering  a  question,  but  always  asking 
another.  I  asked  you  why  you  came  to  see  me.  Well,  since 
you  won't  tell  me,  I'll  tell  you.  You  come  to  see  me  just 
as  you'd  go  to  see  the  Parthenon." 

The  smile  faded  from  his  face.  By  Jove,  she  was  right! 
(Stacey  Carroll,  1914,  had  been  intelligently  introspective; 
Stacey  Carroll,  1919,  could  always  be  surprised  if  some  one 
told  him  truth  about  himself.  Also  annoyed,  generally.  But 
not  this  time.)  Yes,  that  was  it,  he  supposed.  The  bodily 
fact  of  Marian  wakened  his  atrophied  sense  of  beauty — 
but  differently  than  in  the  old  days,  austerely  save  for  the 
touch  of  desire. 

"Now  when  you  can  see  things  as  straight  as  that  why 
do  you  go  in  so  for  everything  rococo?"  he  demanded 
harshly.  "Why  do  you  embroider  and  sentimentalize?" 

She  gazed  at  him,  her  mouth  compressed,  her  eyes  bril- 
liant with  anger — which  was  certainly  justified.  Then  her 


70  The  Lonely  Warrior 

expression  changed  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  grace- 
fully. 

"So  you  see,"  she  said  calmly,  "y°u  were  Just  asking  a 
silly  careless  question  a  moment  ago.  You  don't  care 
whether  I  have  a  heart  or  not."  She  smiled  again.  "What 
an  odd  pair  we  are!"  she  went  on.  "Poor  me!  Not  en- 
gaged any  longer!  Deserted  after  all  these  years!  You 
must  be  sure  not  to  tell  papa  until  you've  given  me  time 
to  get  engaged  to  some  one  else — Ames  Price,  I  think  you 
said  I  might  marry.  Papa  would  be  too  awfully  angry." 

"Why?"  Stacey  asked.  "Is  he  so  anxious  to  be  rid  of 
you?" 

But  at  this  Marian  only  laughed  without  replying. 

Stacey  had  of  course  seen  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Latimer  more 
than  once  by  this  time.  His  old  admiration  for  Marian's 
father  had  gone,  like  so  many  other  things.  He  found  Mr. 
Latimer  a  cultivated  futile  gentleman  with  an  interest  in 
baubles  and  a  talent  for  intelligent  monologue.  The  only 
thing  about  him  that  awakened  any  interest  in  Stacey  was 
a  kind  of  irascibility  that  Stacey  did  not  remember  as  for- 
merly characteristic  of  him.  Mr.  Latimer  was  really  sharp 
at  times,  in  a  suave  polished  way,  with  his  daughter  and 
his  wife. 

But  Mrs.  Latimer,  though  she  had  certainly  aged,  had 
clearly  not  done  so  because  of  such  trifles;  for  she  bore 
her  husband's  occasional  pettish  outbursts  with  a  pleasant 
detached  tolerance.  They  might  have  been  the  outbursts 
of  characters  in  a  book  she  was  reading,  for  all  the  effect 
they  appeared  to  have  on  her. 

She  had  welcomed  Stacey  with  quiet  happiness,  and  he 
had  felt  at  once  a  comfort  in  her  presence  which  he  felt  in 
that  of  no  one  else.  Yet  she  had  said  nothing  of  importance 
to  him,  had  talked  of  externals  even  the  time  or  two  that 
they  had  found  themselves  alone  together  for  a  few  minutes. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  71 

He  left  the  Latimer  house  rather  early  on  the  afternoon 
of  this  unsatisfactory  interview  with  Marian.  Something 
about  Marian  antagonized  him  strongly,  even  now  that  he 
was  surely  free;  so  that  the  impulse  he  felt  to  seek  her 
society  repeatedly  in  this  way  revealed  a  bond  of  some 
inexplicable  sort  and  irked  him. 

He  walked  swiftly  north  till  he  came  to  the  handsome 
park  the  entrance  to  which  lay  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  Latimer  home.  And,  plunging  into  the  green  shady 
paths,  he  felt  a  sudden  relief.  To  cut  loose  from  it  all — all! 
streets !  all  men !  To  be  free !  There  was  no  joy  for  him 
in  the  full-leafed  June  beauty  of  the  trees  or  in  the  bird 
songs  among  them, — no  call  to  comradeship.  Quite  other- 
wise. It  was  solely  as  release  that  he  instinctively  welcomed 
them. 

Striding  aimlessly  onward  in  this  mood,  Stacey  suddenly 
heard  his  name  called  and  swung  about  quickly  to  see  Mrs. 
Latimer  sitting  on  a  bench  at  the  edge  of  the  path  he  fol- 
Icfwed  and  waving  a  green  parasol  at  him. 

"I  couldn't  help  calling  to  you,"  she  said  pleasantly, 
"though  I  oughtn't  to.  You  look  so  splendidly  alone,  as 
though  you  didn't  want  to  see  any  one." 

"Oh,  but  yes,"  he  returned,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you!  No 
one  else ;  but  you !"  And  he  sat  down  on  her  bench. 

"Now  what  old  woman  could  help  having  her  head 
turned  by  that?"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  smile. 

He  scrutinized  her  face.  Yes,  she  had  grown  older,  he 
thought,  but  not  ignominiously ;  in  some  way  that  made 
age  seem  of  value.  Even  in  regard  to  her  Stacey  was  not 
curious  as  to  what  experiences  of  body  or  soul  lay  beneath 
the  changes  her  face  showed;  but  he  accepted  what  she 
was,  as  a  gracious  fact. 

"Where  have  you  come  from,  Stacey?"  she  asked. 

"From  your  house,"  he  replied,  with  an  acid  smile. 


72  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Oh,"  she  observed,  "so  that's  why  you  were  marching 
along  with  the  air  of  being  so  glad  to  be  alone !  Have  you 
broken — I  mean,  have  you  and  Marian  broken  off  your 
engagement  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stacey  coolly,  "I  believe  so." 

After  this  they  were  silent  for  a  while. 

"Oh,"  he  observed  suddenly,  as  an  afterthought,  but 
really  with  some  little  touch  of  human  sentiment,  "I  hope 
you  won't  feel  hurt !  I  should  be  sorry  to  hurt  you." 

"I?"  Mrs.  Latimer  exclaimed.  "Gracious,  no!  I'm  im- 
mensely relieved.  I  wouldn't  have  had  you  and  Marian 
marry  for  anything  in  the  world." 

Stacey  did  not  know  whether  she  was  being  a  vixenish 
mother-in-law  or  an  unnatural  mother,  but  he  found  her 
remark  amusing  taken  either  way,  and  laughed.  She 
laughed  with  him,  but  more  gaily. 

"Oh,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  "I  forgot !  Marian  says 
we  must  be  sure  not  to  let  Mr.  Latimer  know  at  present." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer,  as  though  it  were  too 
elementary  a  truth  to  deserve  mention.  Marian's  much 
more  intelligent  than  you  ever  gave  her  credit  for  being," 
she  added,  an  instant  later. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  Stacey  admitted  freely,  even  though 
he  did  not  see  the  present  application  of  the  remark,  or, 
indeed,  why  both  Marian  and  her  mother  deemed  it  essential 
that  Mr.  Latimer  should  not  learn  that  the  engagement 
was  off. 

"Naturally,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer  thoughtfully,  poking 
holes  in  the  gravel  with  the  tip  of  her  parasol,  "I  could  see 
that  things  were  not  the  same  as  once.  Well,  that  was  to 
be  expected.  I  shouldn't  have  been  at  all  surprised  to  have 
you  show  a  kind  of — of  fond  indifference  to  Marian.  But 
what  I  don't  understand — there's  so  much  I  don't  under- 
stand about  you,  Stacey — is  the  positive  hostility  I've  felt 


The  Lonely  Warrior  73 

sometimes  in  the  looks  you  gave  her.  It  was  as  though 
you  hated  her.  Why?  Poor  Marian!  She's  just  the 
same  as  always.  Is  that  itself — her  sameness — the  reason  ?" 

"No,"  Stacey  muttered,  "of  course  not!  I  don't  know 
why." 

"Can't  you — find  out  why  ?"  she  asked  gently. 

Stacey  reflected,  painfully  and  with  resentment  at  the 
need.  Finally  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Latimer.  An  odd  fanatical  intensity  glowed 
in  his  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  speaking  thickly  and  with  diffi- 
culty. "I  hadn't  thought.  But  perhaps  it's  —  because 
Marian's  perfection  is  so — dependent  on  wealth.  I  see 
Marian,"  he  went  on,  his  words  suddenly  pouring  out,  "as 
a  flower  that  you  get  by  fairly  watering  the  ground  with 
money.  Put  her  by  herself  in  the  panting  sweating  world  and 
what  would  she  be?  Her  grace  is  money!  Her  ease — 
money.  All  her  charm — money !  Everything  in  her  except 
her  chiselled  Greek  beauty  is  money !  I  hate  money !"  And 
he  fell  into  tumultuous  silence. 

"So  that  was  it,"  Mrs.  Latimer  said  in  a  tired  voice. 
"Poor  Stacey!  Confidence  for  confidence,"  she  added  ab- 
ruptly, after  a  pause.  "Have  you  ever  wondered  why  we 
gave  up  Italy  and  came  here  to  live  ?" 

"Often,"  he  answered,  surprised.  "I  used  to  fancy  it 
was  your  decision — your  feeling  that  Marian  ought  to  know 
America." 

She  smiled  oddly.  "My  decision!  It  would  make  no 
difference  where  Marian  lived.  She  would  never  at  any 
point  touch  the  real  world.  No,  it  was  not  my  decision. 
You  see,  our  income,  which  was  considered  a  tidy  little  com- 
petence at  the  time  Mr.  Latimer  inherited  it,  remained  sta- 
tionary while  the  cost  of  everything  grew  and  grew.  Amer- 
ica was  expensive,  but  in  it  Marian  could  marry  money — 


74  The  Lonely  Warrior 

money,  Stacey!  And,  of  course,"  she  added,  with  a  kind 
of  bravado,  "you  were  a  splendid  parti!" 

Stacey  felt  sickened  by  the  revelation.  Oddly  enough, 
five  years  past,  when  he  had  been  incorrigibly  romantic,  it 
would  not  have  disgusted  him  a  tenth  as  much  as  now  when 
he  was  stripped  clean  of  illusions. 

"I  see,"  he  remarked.  "So  to-day,  with  the  present  cost 
of  living,  Marian  simply  must  marry.  What  an  economic 
waste  to  have  thrown  away  these  five  years  in  waiting  for 
me!  Why  do  you  tell  me  this,  Mrs.  Latimer?" 

"Only  because  it's  a  relief  to  tell  somebody,"  she  replied, 
"and  because  you  said  what  you  did  about  money,  and  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  show  you  that  one  might  feel  as  you  did, 
with  even  more  reason,  and  still  live  and  be  tolerably  happy." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  concluded  desperately,  "because 
truth  is  truth,  and  if  I  ever  connived  at  anything  against 
you  I  want  to  tell  you  of  it." 

Stacey  smiled.  "You're  much  more  girlish  than  your 
daughter,"  he  said. 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  while. 

Then:  "Did  you  have  an  awful,  awful'  time,  Stacey?" 
she  asked  softly. 

He  started.  "Where?  In  France?  Oh,  yes,  of  course," 
he  replied,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

"I  thought  of  you  so  often,"  she  went  on.  "It  must  be 
dreadful  to  be  an  idealist  and  then  see  all  your  ideals  go — 
violently — one  by  one — " 

"Violently,  yes,"  he  interrupted  coolly.  "Not  one  by 
one." 

"Crushed  to  death  by  facts — not  average  facts,  all  the 
horrible  evil  facts  herded  together  and  organized  until  they 
must  have  seemed  normal !" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "facts  are  facts!    They  aren't  either  evil 


The  Lonely  Warrior  75 

or  good.  And  you're  much  too  polite  in  saying  that  I  was 
an  idealist.  'Sentimentalist'  is  the  right  word.  Can't  say 
that  the  method  employed  to  remove  my  illusions  was  par- 
ticularly gentle,  but  I'm  grateful  enough  for  the  removal." 

There  was  a  look  of  pain  on  Mrs.  Latimer's  face.  "No ! 
No!"  she  cried.  "It  isn't  fair!  There's  good  disillusion- 
ment and  bad!  It's  good  to  have  false  prettiness,  false 
sentiment — whatever  is  false — scrubbed  off,  but  it  isn't 
good,  it  isn't  fair  to  a  man,  to  see  only  pain  and  death  and 
agony  and  mud  for  four  years  and  be  made  to  feel  that 
that's  all  there  is  of  true.  It  isn't  fair !  It  isn't !" 

Stacey's  face  was  pale  but  calm  and  touched  with  a  dis- 
tant haughty  scorn  of  all'  things.  "Oh,  it  wasn't  only  that !" 
he  said  in  a  chill  voice.  "I  doubt  if  that  was  even  the  pro- 
foundest  lesson  in  disillusionment.  That  was  the  lesson  of 
pain  and  brutality  and  ugliness  and  fatigue — incredible  fa- 
tigue. It  even  had  gleams  of  relief — flashes  of  lightning  in 
chaos.  Men  showed  themselves  beasts,  but  with  a  capacity 
for  enduring  more  suffering  than  you'd  have  thought  pos- 
sible. There  was  funk,  of  course, — individual  cowardice 
and  rank,  bestial,  mass  terror,  just  as  there  was  mass  cru- 
elty. But  there  was  amazing  heroism,  too.  And  the  men 
did  carry  on  in  spite  of  everything.  Oh,  no,  the  trouble 
with  the  front  line  was  the  senselessness  of  squandering  so 
much  life.  The  place  to  get  real'  disillusionment — where 
you  learned  the  senselessness  and  sordidness  of  life  itself — 
was  behind  the  lines,  back  where  things  were  neat  and 
pretty,  where  the  officers  had  feuds  over  questions  of  per- 
sonal prestige,  and  stupid  fools  gave  orders  disposing  of 
men's  lives,  and  the  peasants  gouged  the  soldiers  for  all'  they 
were  worth.  Or  back  in  Paris  where  the  shop-keepers 
gouged  every  one.  And  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  with  their  silly 
sloppy  Christianity — all  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  pos- 
sible worlds!  Or  down  in  Italy,  where  butter  and  sugar 


76  The  Lonely  Warrior 

were  rationed  down  to  the  minutest  fragments  and  there 
wasn't  enough  so  that  women  and  children  could  always 
get  even  those  tiny  rations,  and  yet  some  people  had  butter 
on  their  table  in  quantities  three  times  a  day  and  bought 
sugar  in  five-kilo  packages  at  their  back  doors  at  six  times 
the  established  price.  And  the  American  Red  Cross  with 
its  silly  pompous  'majors'  and  'colonels'  out  for  decorations ! 
'Colonel'  So-and-So  thought  he'd  been  slighted,  and  'Major' 
Thingumbob  absolutely  was  going  to  be  given  a  place  on 
the  balcony  when  that  ceremony  came  off,  by  God  he  was 
or  know  the  reason  why!  And  the  Committee  on  Public 
Misinformation !  And  no  coal  to  run  trains  enough  to  carry 
the  people  who  absolutely  had  to  travel,  and  President  Wil- 
son coming  to  Rome  with  a  million  journalists!"  He 
laughed  harshly.  "Or,  for  the  matter  of  that, — America! 
I  haven't  seen  very  much  of  it  yet,  but  I  gather— oh,  I 
gather  a  great  deal !" 

Stacey  paused  at  last.  But  he  did  not  look  crushed  or 
dejected  by  his  enumeration  of  abuses.  He  looked  more 
alive  than  before.  He  looked  like  a  young,  evil,  disdain- 
ful god. 

It  was  Mrs.  Latimer  whose  face  was  white.  "Poor 
Stacey !"  she  murmured  brokenly.  "All  true,  no  doubt,  but 
not  the  whole  truth !  Poor  Stacey !" 

"Poor  me?"  he  asked.  "Why?  Fm  all  right,  and  free—- 
or almost." 

"Free,  or  almost?"  she  repeated. 

He  frowned.  "Wisps  of  old  things  hang  around  futilely 
and  bother  me  a  trifle — like  soft  fog  around  a  ship,  but  I'll 
get  rid  of  them,"  he  said  confidently. 

"So  as  to  be  free?" 

"Yes." 

She  reflected  for  a  moment.    "Why  do  you  want  to  be 


The  Lonely  Warrior  77 

free?"  she  asked  timidly.  "What  will  you  do  with  freedom, 
Stacey?" 

"Do  with  it?  Nothing!  It's  an  end  in  itself.  Isn't  it 
aim  enough  to  want  to  get  rid  of  association  with  the  kind 
of  thing  I've  been  chronicling?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  might  be.  It  isn't  your  aim, 
Stacey.  And  anyway  one  can't  be  free.  Oh,  Stacey,  for- 
give an  old  woman  who  is  fond  of  you, — but  you — you've 
come  back  a  different  person  than  you  went  away,  and  in- 
deed you  must,  to  live,  follow  that  old,  old  advice:  'Know 
Thyself!" 

He  stared  at  her  sullenly. 

"I  know  you're  determined  not  to,  but  you  must!"  she 
cried. 

"Haven't  I,"  he  said  coldly,  "been  regaling  you  with 
reams  about  myself  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  again.  "You  haven't  even  scratched 
the  surface.  It's  late,  my  dear  boy,"  she  added.  "Please 
take  me  home." 


CHAPTER  V 

PHILIP  BLAIR  and  Stacey  had  been  hunting  houses.  Cath- 
erine and  the  boys  were  to  come  on  when  one  had  been  found 
and  enough  furniture  rented  to  live  with  until  their  own 
could  be  shipped. 

Houses  to  let  were  scarce,  applicants  numerous,  and  rents 
high.  But  Stacey  employed  obstinate  pressure  and  actually 
presented  his  friend  with  a  choice  of  three.  Which,  better 
than  anything  else,  indicates  the  position  of  the  Carroll 
family  in  Vernon. 

The  thing  was  done,  the  lease  signed,  and  the  agent  had 
left  them;  but  Phil  and  Stacey  stood  for  a  little  while  on 
the  wooden  porch  of  Phil's  new  house,  looking  down  at 
the  city. 

Vernon  was,  for  the  most  part,  flat,  but  one  hill  of  mod- 
erate eminence  it  did  possess,  which,  in  the  narrow  early 
days  when  the  city  was  young  and  a  man  was  deemed  suc- 
cessful if  he  had  at  sixty  amassed  a  fortune  of  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  had  been  the  supreme  centre  of  fashion, 
as  was  evidenced  by  the  towers  (to  say  nothing  of  the  light- 
ning rods)  on  the  now  dingy  frame  houses.  Stacey  himself 
had  lived  on  this  hill  when  a  small  boy,  and  the  school  he 
had  attended  still  crowned  it.  But  those  were  the  days 
when  Vernon's  best  citizens  boasted  that  Vernon  had  a 
population  of  a  hundred  thousand  (which  it  did  not  have). 
Now  Vernon  had  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  or  perhaps 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand,  and  its  best  citizens  did 
not  much  care.  The  crowded  business  section  had  flowed 
to  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  even  burst  like  a  wave  upon  it, 
spattering  its  slopes  with  small  garages  and  second-rate 

78 


The  Lonely  Warriof  79 

shops.  Noise  rose  and  the  odor  of  smoke.  Fashion  had 
long  since  departed — to  the  edge  of  the  city,  where  the 
Carrolls  lived,  or  still  farther,  to  the  hills  that  rose 
beyond. 

Stacey  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  prospect  and  glanced 
sharply  about  him  at  the  porch,  the  steps,  and  the  small 
front  yard.  "Sordid  kind  of  place  to  have  to  live  in,"  he 
remarked.  "Sorry  I  can't  get  anything  better  for  you." 

Philip  Blair  smiled  his  pleasant  gentle  smile.  "You  know 
you  don't  think  that,  Stacey,"  he  returned.  "You're  only 
saying  what  you  take  to  be  the  proper  thing.  At  heart  you 
don't  feel  that  it  matters  in  the  least  where  one  lives." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  Stacey  assented  absently.  He  was 
again  staring  off  at  the  city.  It  stretched  out,  monotonous 
and  unbroken  save  where  the  afternoon  sunlight  glittered 
on  the  two  converging  branches  of  its  sluggish  river. 

"I  wish,"  said  Phil  shyly,  after  a  pause,  "that  you'd  let 
me  thank  you — for  this  whole  business." 

"For  God's  sake,  don't!"  Stacey  exclaimed  sharply. 
"Thank  me  if  I  give  you  anything  real — peace  or — or  free- 
dom. Don't  thank  me  for  anything  to  do  with  money !" 

Indeed,  he  did  not  want  to  be  thanked.  Gratitude  was 
a  bond,  the  recognition  of  gratitude  a  bond. 

Phil  looked  at  him  sadly,  but  Stacey  did  not  see ;  his  eyes 
were  still  fixed  on  the  city. 

"The  solidity,"  he  muttered  at  last,  "the  damned  solidity 
of  it!  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it?"  he  burst  out, 
turning  on  Phil. 

"The  solidity  of  what?" 

"Of  that!  Of  the  city!  I  didn't  feel' it  at  first  when  I 
got  back.  It's  getting  on  my  nerves  now.  There  are 
churches  in  it  where  men  preach  at  it,  and  lecture  halls 
where  men  talk  at  it,  and  auditoriums  where  it's  sung  at 
and  played  at, — faugh!  Children  with  puffed-out  cheeks 


8o  The  Lonely  Warrior 

trying  to  blow  down  a  house !  Why,  look  at  it !  It's  only 
sixty  years  old,  yet  it's  more  eternally  unchangeable  than 
the  Pyramids !" 

"Well,"  said  Phil  slowly,  "what's  wrong  with  that?  Why 
should  it  change?" 

"Why?  The  whole  world  has  gone  through  agony,  has 
been  wrenched  and  torn  until  not  one  atom  of  it,  not  one 
emotion,  not  one  value,  remains  as  it  was, — and  here  is 
this  damned  ignoble  changeless  place  that  doesn't  know 
there's  been  a  war — or  pretends  not  to  know,  so  that  it 
won't  be  expected  to  change.  Nothing  can  change  it,  I 
tell  you, — but  bombs !" 

"But,"  Phil  asked  steadily,  "how  do  you  want  to  change 
it?  What  do  you  want  to  do  for  it?" 

"Nothing!"  Stacey  cried.  "I  don't  want  to  change  it, 
either  for  better  or  worse.  Nobody  can  change  what  a 
war  like  this  couldn't  change.  I  want,"  he  concluded,  his 
eyes  glowing  strangely,  "to  wipe  it  out,  annihilate  it! 
Bombs,  I  said.  Nothing  else  is  any  good." 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  Philip  Blair's  face.  "I  think," 
he  said,  "that  you're  a  little  mad,  Stacey." 

"Maybe,"  said  Stacey,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"Because  it  isn't  only  Vernon  you'd  have  to  destroy. 
Everything's  that  way — unchanging.  It  has  to  be,  I  sup- 
pose, to  endure.  People  have  their  own  lives.  They  can't 
change  so  very  much.  Even  mothers  don't  die  because  their 
sons  have  died.  They  suffer  for  a  while,  then  forget.  Ver- 
non and  the  Middle-West  shock  you  now  because  they've 
been  too  removed  and  too  unimaginative  to  suffer  at  the 
war.  They've  scarcely  felt  the  war.  While  you've  been  in 
places  all  raw  with  pain.  But  they,  too,  will  get  over  it 
and  be  like  Vernon.  It  isn't  Vernon  you'd  have  to  destroy. 
It's  all  humanity." 

Stacey's  face  was  inscrutable.     Not  a  muscle  in  it  had 


The  Lonely  Warrior  8n 

moved.  But  his  eyes  had  grown  dark  with  a  kind  of 
shadow.  "Maybe,"  he  said  again  quietly.  "Come  on! 
Let's  go." 

They  went  down  the  steps  and  along  the  brief  board- 
walk to  Stacey's  car,  which  was  parked  before  the  house. 

Dinner  was  at  seven,  and  they  were  in  the  living-room  at 
ten  minutes  to.  It  was  the  one  admonition  Stacey  had  given 
Phil  on  the  latter's  arrival  the  day  before.  "Do  as  you 
please  in  everything — only  be  on  time  at  meals,"  he  had 
said. 

Mr.  Carroll  was  waiting  for  them,  with  cocktail's  ready 
to  pour.  He  was  in  a  genial  mood  and  nodded  appreci- 
atively at  the  younger  men's  promptness.  "Pleasure  to  have 
to  do  wth  people  who  understand  that  seven  means  seven," 
he  observed.  "You  wouldn't  believe,  Blair,  the  trouble  I 
used  to  have  with  Stacey.  He  was  almost  as  bad  as  his 
sister  in  his  contempt  for  time."  He  poured  the  cocktails. 
"Make  them  mysel'f  nowadays,"  he  explained.  "I  have 
profound  respect  for  Parker,  but  I  don't  want  to  strain  his 
integrity  too  much.  You  can't  even  trust  the  men  at  the 
club  not  to  rifle  one  another's  lockers.  Not  that  Parker 
wouldn't  make  a  more  creditable  member  than  a  good  many 
of  them." 

They  laughed. 

"Dare  say,"  remarked  Stacey.  "But  now  this  question 
of  being  on  time, — I  can  see  two  sides  to  it." 

"Two  ?"  his  father  exclaimed.  "Not  a  bit  of  it !  There's 
only  one  side." 

"No,  it's  a  matter  of  two  opposing  theories  of  life.  One 
is  that  you  should  always  be  on  time  so  as  to  avoid  incon- 
veniencing one  another  and  wasting  energy  and  having 
dishes  get  cold.  The  other  is  that  you  shouldn't  worry  too 
much  about  promptness  or  you  1'et  time  get  the  upper  hand 
of  you  and  run  your  life." 


82  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Fiddlesticks!"  Mr.  Carroll  interrupted.  "It  will  run 
your  life  more  if  you  neglect  it." 

"Yes,  that's  a  point  for  you.  I  knew  an  Italian  family 
in  Rome,  delightful  people, — several  branches  of  the  family 
there  were — lived  all  over  the  city.  They  were  always 
going  places  together  en  masse.  But  it  took  them  forever 
to  get  assembled.  Once  they  stood  in  the  rain  in  three  sep- 
arate bunches  in  three  distinct  and  distant  parts  of  Rome 
because  they'd  all  forgotten  at  just  what  time  they  were  to 
meet  and  where.  No,  you're  a  slave  if  you  disregard  time 
and  a  slave  if  you  bow  down  to  it.  You're  had  either  way." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Mr.  Carroll. 

"I  rather  think  that  there's  a  little  more  to  it,"  Phil  ob- 
served quietly.  "I  think  Mr.  Carroll's  side  is  right.  It  is 
better  to  be  prompt.  But  not  because  you  save  time  that 
way  and  are  more  efficient.  Rather  because  you  establish 
a|i  apparent  medium  of  smoothness  to  live  in,  make  every- 
thing seem  permanent,  eternal  and  of  value.  To  have  the 
nine-seven  train  pull  gently  out  of  the  Pennsylvania  Station 
at  precisely  nine-seven  gives  you  a  feeling  of  confidence,  a 
sense  that  everything's  going  to  be  all  right.  An  illusion, 
of  course,  but  essential.  A  lot  of  bohemian  marriages  break 
up  just  because  they  don't  have  it  there,  stable  and  making 
marriage  seem  stable." 

Mr.  Carroll  nodded.  "Something  in  that,  maybe,"  he 
observed. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  and  they  went  in. 

"Did  you  find  a  house?"  Mr.  Carroll  inquired  after  a 
while. 

"Yes,"  said  Phil.    "I'm  awfully  pleased." 

"Where?" 

Stacey  told  him. 

Mr.   Carroll  fairly  snorted.     "Stacey,   I'm   ashamed  of 


The  Lonely  Warrior  83 

you !"  he  cried.  "Bl'air  can't  live  in  a  hovel  like  that.  He 
can't  surround  his  children  with  all  that  coal-dust  and 
noise." 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Mr.  Carroll,"  Phil  protested,  "that 
it's  a  lot  better  than  where  we've  been  living.  I  really  like 
the  place.  I  can  run  a  lawn-mower  in  the  evening." 

But  the  older  man  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "Now 
look  here!"  he  said.  "This  house  of  mine  is  three  times 
too  big  for  Stacey  and  me,  especially  since  Julie  married. 
You  bring  your  wife  and  children  here  to  live — anyway 
until  you  can  find  something  really  decent  or  build  if  you 
decide  to  stay." 

Philip  Blair  flushed  slightly.  "I  never  heard  of  anything 
quite  so  generous  as  that,  sir,"  he  replied,  a  trifle  unsteadily, 
"but  I  can't  possibly  accept."  And  there  was  a  gentle  deci- 
sion in  his  voice. 

"Well,  well,  well !  I'd  have  been  glad  to  have  you,"  said 
Mr.  Carroll,  and  dropped  the  subject. 

Stacey  recognized  that  his  father's  offer  was  more  than 
ordinarily  generous,  especially  since  Mr.  Carroll  liked  to 
lead  his  own  life.  And  he  would  have  lived  up  to  it,  Stacey 
knew.  He  would  have  tried  to  crush  Phil's  opinions  into 
the  mold  of  his  own  and  he  would  certainly  have  been 
cross  if  Phil  or  Catherine  were  late  at  meals  or  showed 
Bolshevik  leanings,  but  in  his  own  way,  and  with  externals, 
he  would  have  been  both  impetuously  and  consistently  gen- 
erous. He  would  probably  even  have  given  Phil  a  key  to 
the  wine-cellar.  All  this  Stacey  understood,  and  with  it 
his  father.  But  his  understanding  was  intellectual.  He 
should  have  felt  a  warm  glow,  but  he  did  not.  The  only 
emotion  he  felt  was  a  faint  sadness  at  feeling  nothing. 
"Dead!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Dead  as  they  make 
'em!" 


84  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Yet  he  would  not  really  have  chosen  to  feel. 

At  coffee  time  a  friend  of  Mr.  Carroll's  dropped  in  to 
play  pinochle,  and  Phil  and  Stacey  went  upstairs. 

But  Stacey  was  restless.  He  wanted  to  see  Marian  and 
resented  the  desire — another  bond  that  he  could  not  shake 
free  of.  Moreover,  he  knew  that  in  Marian's  presence 
he  should  dislike  her.  So  the  endurance  of  the  desire  was 
doubly  exasperating.  All  this  lack  of  harmony — even  of 
common  sense ! 

"I  think  I'll  go  over  to  see  Marian  Latimer,"  he  said  at 
last  to  Phil.  "Be  glad  to  have  you  come  along.  Really, 
you  know." 

"Thanks,"  returned  Phil,  "no.  I'm  a  bit  fagged.  Quite 
sincere  about  it.  Run  along." 

"I'll  find  out  first  whether  she's  in,"  Stacey  said,  and 
lifted  the  receiver  of  the  telephone  on  his  desk.  They  were 
in  his  study.  "If  she  isn't  I'll  go  to  a  movie,"  he  added, 
while  waiting  for  his  number. 

He  got  the  house  and,  after  a  minute,  Marian.  She 
laughed  musically  in  response  to  his  question.  "Why,  yes, 
come !  Do  come !"  she  said. 

Her  laughter  made  him  angry — but  not  with  her,  with 
himself.  It  was  not  her  recognition  of  her  power  over  him 
that  he  minded.  It  was  that  power  itself. 

He  walked  to  her  house — a  matter  of  a  mile.  He  never 
used  a  motor  car  nowadays  if  he  could  get  anywhere  with- 
out one.  Swift  walking  calmed  the  persistent  fever  of  his 
blood. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Latimer  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he 
stood  there  for  a  few  minutes,  chatting  with  them. 

"Marian  is  in  the  library,"  said  Mr.  Latimer  presently. 
"She  left  word  that  you  were  to  go  up  as  soon  as  you 
came." 

"Ames  Price  is  there,  too,"  Mrs.  Latimer  put  in  quietly. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  85 

"AH  right,"  said  Stacey,  with  apparent  equanimity, 
"Thanks." 

But  he  saw  Mr.  Latimer  flash  a  sudden  glance  of  anger 
at  his  wife,  who,  however,  went  on  with  her  knitting  calmly. 

"So  that's  the  way  the  land  lies,"  Stacey  reflected,  as  he 
climbed  the  stairs.  "Papa  has  been  told,  or,  more  likely, 
has  found  out.  Decent  of  Mrs.  Latimer,  very  1"  Neverthe- 
less, he  was  unhappy. 

He  knocked  at  the  library  door,  and  Marian  called  to  him 
to  enter. 

She  was  curled  up  in  her  favorite  arm-chair,  and  Ames 
Price  was  rising  from  a  smaller  chair  near-by. 

Marian  gave  Stacey  a  look  of  mischievous  defiance.  But 
he  went  over  and  shook  hands  with  her  so  pleasantly  and 
coolly  that  her  eyes  grew  suddenly  puzzled. 

"Hello,  Ames,"  he  said  then,  shaking  his  rival's  hand. 
"Haven't  seen  you  for  years.  How've  you  been  ?" 

"First-class !"  replied  the  other,  eyeing  Stacey  doubtfully. 
"You  look  pretty  fit." 

He  was  a  tall,  fair,  loosely  built  man  of  forty,  smooth- 
shaven  and  slightly  bal'd.  Stacey  had  known  him  in  a  casual 
way  for  years,  but  all  that  he  really  knew  about  him  was 
that  he  had  inherited  money,  had  managed  it  well  enough, 
was  said  to  be  a  bit  fast — but  not  excessively,  and  played  an 
admirable  game  of  golf.  So  far  as  Stacey  or  any  one  else 
was  aware,  there  had  been  (except  for  golf)  no  passions  in 
Ames's  life.  Stacey  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him,  that  he  should 
have  been  overwhelmed  now  by  this  one.  Marian  would 
make  him  uncomfortable.  She  would  demand  a  great  va- 
riety of  emotions  of  him. 

But,  in  spite  of  himself,  Stacey  also  felt  a  hot  jealousy. 
By  Jove,  Marian  was  beautiful! 

"I  suppose,"  said  Ames,  with  proper  politeness,  "that  you 
must  have  had  a  pretty  rough  time  in  France.  You  were 


86  The  Lonely  Warrior 

over  the  deuce  of  a  while.  I  didn't  get  across  myself— divi- 
sion just  about  to  sail  when  the  Armistice  came  along." 

There  was  a  touch  of  constraint  in  his  tone.  Stacey 
understood  it  at  once.  It  was  as  though  Ames  had  said: 
"You  come  back  a  hero.  What  chance  have  I  got 
against  you  ?" 

"Oh,  well,"  Stacey  returned,  pleasantly  enough,  "that's 
all  done  with  now.  Here  we  all  are  again.  There's  no 
change  in  anything,  really." 

He  glanced  at  Marian.  She  was  surveying  the  situation 
distantly,  with  a  faint  amused  smile.  Stacey's  own  sensa- 
tions beneath  his  calm  demeanor  were  turbulent  and  mixed. 
He  desired  Marian  keenly,  hated  to  let  her  go,  yet  felt  an 
antagonism  for  her  that  his  desire  increased  rather  than 
diminished.  He  was  jealous  of  Ames,  yet  not  in  the  l^ast 
hostile  toward  him, — almost  kindly,  in  fact. 

"Going  to  build  houses  again?"  Ames  asked. 

Stacey  considered  him  for  a  moment,  then  Marian,  and  in 
that  moment  wrenched  himself  free. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  believe  I'll  go  away — travel.  Funny 
thing,  but  a  long  stretch  of  the  war-stuff  turns  a  man  into  a 
rather  solitary  animal.  Maybe  it's  the  noise  of  the  guns 
that's  shut  him  off  for  so  long  from  companionship." 

He  was  not  really  thinking,  except  vaguely,  of  leaving 
Vernon,  and  had  spoken  principally  to  reassure  Ames;  for 
which  uncharacteristically  benevolent  act  he  was  imme- 
diately rewarded.  The  other  man's  face  relaxed  from 
anxiety  into  an  expression  so  blissful  as  to  be  silly.  In  spite 
of  his  conflicting  emotions,  Stacey  could  hardly  keep  from 
laughing. 

"We  shall  all  be  awfully  sorry  to  have  you  go,  Stacey," 
said  Marian  gently.  "I  shall,  especially." 

This  might  be  directed  at  Ames  (Marian  was  certain  to 
spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  hurting  Ames),  but  Stacey  did 


The  Lonely  Warrior  87 

not  think  it  was.  For  it  was  a  simple  remark,  simply 
phrased.  And  Marian  sat  there,  quiet,  carved,  thinking  no 
doubt  that  Stacey  liked  her  best  that  way. 

Well,  he  did. 

Before  long  he  rose  to  go.  He  would  have  liked  to  remain 
and  look  at  Marian,  but  he  had  a  well'  developed  sense  of 
fair  play.  Let  Ames  be  happy !  And  deeper  than  this  was 
the  feeling  that  since  he,  Stacey,  had  decided  for  freedom  he 
had  better  begin  to  act  on  the  decision  at  once.  That  was  it 
— act!  do  something!  It  was  the  only  release  from 
everything. 

But  when  he  rose  Marian  rose  too,  and  accompanied  him 
out  into  the  hall,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her.  Ames  did 
not  seem  to  mind.  When  Marian  excused  herself  his  rather 
vacuous  face  was  as  radiant  as  before.  What  more  natural 
than  that  a  girl  should  find  it  fitting  to  say  good-bye  to  an 
outgrown  lover  of  her  early  youth  ? 

Ames  would  not,  perhaps,  have  bten  so  calm  about  it 
had  he  witnessed  the  setting  and  details.  For  outside  the 
door  Marian  paused  only  for  an  instant  to  look  up  at  Stacey, 
then,  with  a  gesture  of  her  hand  to  him,  hurried  down  the 
hall  a  few  yards,  stopped  abruptly  at  a  door  that  opened  off 
from  it,  turned  the  knob  gently,  and,  giving  first  one  swift 
glance  up  and  down  the  hall,  pulled  Stacey  a  little  way  into 
the  room  beyond. 

He  gazed  around  him  quickly.  There  was  no  light  save 
that  which  came  from  the  hall.  It  was  Marian's  bedroom. 

He  turned  on  her  and  seized  her  wrists,  his  heart  beating 
violently.  But  his  hostility  rose,  wave  for  wave,  with  his 
passion.  What  a  trick  to  play  on  him!  Deliberate! 
Deliberate ! 

But  she  stood  there,  close  to  him,  perfectly  still,  looking 
up  into  his  eyes.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  trembled 
a  little. 


88  The  Lonely  Warrior 

They  kissed,  madly. 

"Good-bye,  Stacey,"  she  murmured  faintly,  when  he  had 
released  her.  "Don't  think  I  was — trying  to  hold  you.  I 
wasn't.  I  only  wanted  to  say  good-bye — like  this.  I  think 
you're — right — and  I  won't  hate  you — any  more  than  I  can 
help.  Good-bye!"  And,  with  another  swift  glance  up  and 
down,  she  drew  him  back  into  the  hall. 

But  when  she  was  already  half  way  to  the  library  door  she 
turned  and  came  back  a  step  or  two.  Her  eyes  were  wet, 
but  her  mouth  had  curved  into  a  mischievous  smile. 

"Poor  Ames !"  she  said,  and  was  gone. 

Stacey  managed  to  leave  the  house  without  seeing  either 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Latimer.  He  walked  away  swiftly.  And 
when  the  confusion  of  his  senses  wore  off  he  began  to  see 
into  things  a  little  more  deeply  than  before.  He  saw  his 
feeling  toward  Marian  as  it  really  was  and  as,  he  perceived, 
Marian  had  understood  it — animal  desire  and  love  of  beauty. 
Desire  was  a  bond.  It  hurt  to  have  it  go.  Stacey  felt  a 
painful  emptiness,  as  though  he  had  torn  something  vio- 
lently from  his  heart.  Yet  he  also  felt  a  kind  of  exultation. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LIFE  in  Vernon  went  on  and  on,  and  Stacey  watched  it  pro- 
ceed. But  his  attitude  remained  one  of  scornful  indifference 
through  which  flickered  occasional'  gleams  of  sudden  eager 
interest,  anger  or  hate.  The  perception  of  greed  was  one 
of  the  things  that  stirred  him  most  frequently,  and  it  grew 
within  him  until  it  amounted  almost  to  a  fixed  idea.  His 
hatred  of  money,  its  symbol,  became  fanatical.  He  would 
have  renounced  his  own  income  entirely,  except  that  he  did 
not  want  to  throw  himself  into  the  melee  just  yet,  but  some- 
how to  see  things  through  from  outside — though  through  to 
where,  he  could  not  have  said.  As  it  was,  he  retained  two 
hundred  dollars  a  month  and  sent  the  rest  to  the  relief  fund 
for  Viennese  children.  In  this  he  was  making  no  effort  to 
live  up  to  a  principle,  to  conform  himself  to  some  ideal  of 
life ;  if  he  had  been,  he  would  have  sent  all.  He  was,  almost 
solely,  striving  for  freedom  from  something  he  hated.  Not 
quite  solely,  however,  or  why  did  he  make  this  particular 
disposition  of  the  money?  He  refused  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion. He  would  be  free  from  what  he  loved  as  well  as  from 
what  he  hated. 

One  carefully  covered-up  aspect  of  life  in  Vernon  did 
interest  Stacey.  Existence  there  seemed  the  same  as  for- 
merly, people  thought  it  was — though  perhaps  a  few  of 
them  only  pretended  to  think  so ;  but  at  bottom  certain  fun- 
damental relationships  were  shaken.  Men  paid  eighteen 
dollars  for  a  pair  of  shoes  for  which  five  years  back  they 
would  have  paid  seven,  or,  not  buying  them,  would  next  day 
have  to  pay  twenty-three;  women  would  offer  sixty  dollars 
a  month  for  a  maid,  then  not  get  her.  The  majority  said 

89 


90  The  Lonely  Warrior 

that  the  cost  of  living  was  outrageous  and  servants  scarce, 
and  went  superbly  on  as  before.  But  Stacey  grinned  at 
them  malignantly.  He  stamped  on  the  ground  and  heard  a 
hollow  sound. 

Therefore,  although  by  this  time  his  father  talked  to  him 
almost  with  constraint  and  gave  him  often  a  wistful  puzzled 
glance,  Stacey  himself  felt  a  juster  appreciation  of  his  father 
than  at  first.  Mr.  Carroll  was  partizan  down  to  the  tips  of 
his  toes,  but  he  did  know  that  more  was  abroad  than  mere 
surface  changes.  His  angry  thought  of  Bolshevism  was  an 
obsession.  And,  knowing  his  father's  nature  to  be  kindly 
and  impulsive,  Stacey  gave  him  credit  for  something  more 
than  the  mere  desire  to  hold  what  he  had  got, — which  Stacey 
thought  he  discerned  beneath  the  vehemence  of  most  per- 
turbed capitalists — Colin  Jeffries,  for  instance.  No,  Mr. 
Carroll  was  in  arms  for  principles  he  believed  in. 

As  for  Stacey,  he  neither  believed  in  them  no'r  in  those 
that  opposed  them.  It  was  unfortunate.  He  would  have 
been  much  happier  if  he  could  have  thrown  himself  actively 
into  the  fray  on  one  side  or  the  other.  Not  because  he 
craved  human  association;  he  did  not.  He  was  singularly 
solitary  and  aloof — with  a  white-hot  kind  of  aloofness. 
But  because  he  craved  action. 

There  was  strike  after  strike  of  labor  in  Vernon.  They 
became  almost  the  only  subject  of  conversation.  Even 
women  discussed  them,  at  teas  or  in  their  electrics  as  they 
drove  to  the  movies.  There  was  no  coal  for  a  while ;  then 
the  workmen  in  all  the  mills  struck;  then  the  river  dock- 
hands  went  out,  and  were  promptly  joined  by  the  truck  and 
dray  men.  This  last  strike  tied  up  nearly  everything. 

Stacey  was  interested.  He  walked  down  to  strike  head- 
quarters one  afternoon  and  faced  one  of  the  sullen  groups 
of  men  gathered  in  the  dishevelled  yard  before  the  low  brick 
building. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  91 

"What  is  it  you  fellows  want  ?"  he  asked  curiously. 

There  ensued  a  rumble  of  hostile  voices  and  some 
sharp  cries.  "Beat  it,  you  bum!"  "Get  to  hell  out  of  here, 
you  damned  aristocrat!" 

"Oh,  shut  up !  I  want  to  know,"  Stacey  said  impatiently. 
"You  must  have  some  idea  about  it." 

The  rumble  became  a  roar,  a  man  struck  out  at  Stacey, 
and  Stacey  promptly  knocked  him  down.  There  was  a 
general  mix-up  during  which  Stacey  was  surprised  to  find  a 
man — one  of  the  laborers,  so  far  as  he  had  time  to  see — 
fighting  efficiently  on  his  side. 

The  police,  who  must  have  been  close-at-hand,  presently 
smashed  up  the  affray  and  rescued  the  two,  whereupon 
Stacey,  rather  battered,  but  happier  than  he  had  been  for  a 
long  while,  swung  about  to  investigate  his  comrade-in-arms. 

"By  the  Lord !    Burnham !"  he  cried,  with  real  pleasure. 

"The  same,  Captain,"  said  the  other,  instinctively  raising 
his  hand  in  salute,  then  dropping  it  again  awkwardly. 

But  Stacey  seized  the  hand  and  wrung  it.  Burnham  had 
been  first  sergeant  in  one  of  his  two  companies. 

Stacey  gave  his  name  to  the  police,  observed  that  he  was 
much  obliged  but  that  there  was  nothing  to  make  a  fuss 
about,  and  walked  away  with  Burnham. 

"Quite  like  old  times,  eh?"  he  remarked. 

"Oh,  this!"  said  Burnham,  and  spat  scornfully. 

"What  are  you  doing  up  here?"  Stacey  demanded. 
"Thought  you  lived  in  Omaha." 

"Well,  I  did.  And  my  wife  and  kids  are  still  there  with 
my  wife's  sister.  But  I  heard  there  was  good  work  with 
better  pay  up  here,  so  I  come  up  to  see,  and  I  was  drivin'  a 
truck,  and  then  the  boys  went  out — " 

"Oh,  look  here!"  cried  Stacey.  "Then  you  were  one  of 
them !  I  swear  I'm  sorry !  This  will  put  you  in  bad  with 
the  others,  won't  it  ?" 


92  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Burnham  grinned.  "They  won't  exactly  be  coming 
around  and  begging  me  to  have  another  drink  of  ginger  ex- 
tract on  them,"  he  admitted.  "It  don't  matter,  Captain, 
honest  it  don't !  I  was  going  back  to  Omaha  anyway." 

Stacey  stopped  walking  and  stared  at  him  curiously. 
"Why  on  earth  did  you  side  with  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  dunno,"  said  the  other,  looking  down  and  shuffling 
with  his  feet  on  the  sidewalk.  "Habit,  I  guess.  No,"  he 
added,  looking  Stacey  in  the  eye,  while  a  dull  flush  spread 
over  his  face,  "no,  it  ain't  that.  I'd  go  anywhere  you  went, 
Captain,  even  if  it  was  straight  to  hell.  Pshaw,  hell  would 
be  a  song  compared  with  some  of  the  places  I've  gone 
with  you !" 

Stacey  was  touched  and  also  disturbed.  What  a  responsi- 
bility! Here  was  a  bond  with  a  vengeance! 

"I'm  blessed  if  I  know  why,"  he  murmured,  and  they 
walked  on.  "And  yet,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "you've  been 
here  in  Vernon  for  I  don't  know  how  long  and  haven't  even 
come  to  see  me!  Is  hell  the  only  place  you'll  accompany 
me  to  ?  Have  you  got  a  special  preference  for  it  ?" 

Burnham  hung  his  head.  "Well,  you  see,"  he  muttered, 
"you're  such  a  confounded  swell  up  here,  Captain !" 

Stacey  again  paused  abruptly  and  turned  on  the  man. 
"Damn  you,  Burnham,  I'm  not!"  he  cried.  "What  do  you 
say  that  for?" 

"Well,"  said  Burnham  apologetically,  "maybe  you  don't 
want  to  be,  maybe  you  ain't,  but  I  guess  you'll  have  a  hell 
of  a  time  not  to  be.  Looks  to  me  like  every  one's  gone  back 
the  way  they  was  before." 

Stacey  felt  profoundly  discouraged,  the  comment  was  so 
obviously  true. 

"Was  that  what  the  men  down  there  had  against  me?" 
he  inquired  almost  humbly,  walking  on  once  more. 

"Sure !"  Burnham  assented.    "The  boys  are  all  right,  but 


The  Lonely  Warrior  93 

they're  touchy.  And  you  blow  in,  not  meaning  any  harm — 
but  they  didn't  know  that,  not  knowing  you  like  I  know  you 
— and  you  ask  them  what  the  matter  is,  like  a  man  giving 
orders,  and  they  get  sore." 

Sullen  anger  with  himself  crept  over  Stacey.  It  was  all 
true  enough.  He  had  spoken  to  the  men  crisply,  like  one  in 
authority.  There  was  no  use  in  expl'aining  to  them,  or  even 
to  Burnham,  that  this  was  not  because  he  was  a  Vernon 
Carroll  but  because  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  military- 
habit  of  command  in  word  and  thought.  There  was  no  use 
in  explaining  anything  to  anybody.  Bonds?  He  was  tied 
hand  and  foot  with  them! 

"By  the  way,"  he  asked  quietly,  "what  is  it  they  want, 
Burnham?" 

"They're  getting  seventy  cents  an  hour — my  crowd,  I 
mean.  They  want  eighty." 

"I  see."   " 

They  continued,  in  silence,  until  at  last  they  reached  the 
Carroll  house.  Burnham  paused  to  look  up  at  it. 

"Some  place,  Captain !"  he  observed  appreciatively. 

"You  know  it?" 

"Yes,  I — I've  been  by  here  before,"  said  Burnham 
sheepishly. 

"Oh,  you've  been  by  here  before,  have  you?"  Stacey  re- 
turned sharply.  "Well,  you're  not  going  by  this  time. 
You're  coming  in." 

"No,  now  listen,  Captain !  I'm  going  to  take  the  ten  P.M. 
for  Omaha." 

"Well,  you  can  start  for  it  from  here  as  well  as  from  any- 
where else.  Come  now !  March !" 

Newspaper  reporters  were  ringing  Stacey  insistently  on 
the  telephone. 

"Pshaw !"  he  answered.  "Nothing  to  it.  Went  down  to 
strike  headquarters  to  ask  silly  questions,  and  got  into  a 


94  The  Lonely  Warrior 

baby  fracas,  as  I  deserved  to.    No  casualties.    No,  I  can't 
tell  you  any  more.    There  isn't  any  more  to  tell'." 

He  took  Burnham  up  to  his  study  and  made  him  sit  down. 
"Now  I  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  he  said.  "About  nine-fifteen 
or  so  we'll  drive  around  to  your  boarding-house  or  wherever 
it  is  you've  been  living  and  pick  up  your  things — " 

Burnham  was  grinning.  "Gee,  Captain,  you're  innocent, 
considering  what  kind  of  things  you've  been  through!"  he 
interrupted.  "D'you  think  after  what's  happened  that  I'd 
find  any  of  my  stuff  there?  I'd  find  a  bunch  of  the  boys 
waiting  to  beat  me  up." 

"Oh!"  said  Stacey.  And,  paying  no  heed  to  Burnham's 
embarrassed  protestations,  he  pulled  a  travelling-bag  from  a 
closet  and  packed  it.  "Oh,  shut  up !"  he  said  finally.  "Go 
into  the  bath-room  there  and  wash.  You're  even  dirtier 
than  I  am." 

Presently  the  door  of  the  study  was  thrown  open  and  Mr. 
Carroll  hurried  in,  red-faced  and  out  of  breath.  "I've  just 
heard,"  he  panted.  "Did  those  damned  scoundrels  do 
you  any — " 

"Sh !"  said  Stacey,  raising  his  finger  to  his  lip,  as  Burn- 
ham  came  out  of  the  bath-room.  "Father,  this  is  Burnham, 
my  first  sergeant — C  Company — and  as  good  a  man  as  I've 
run  up  against.  Incidentally,  though  he's  one  of  the  boys 
who're  striking,  he  turned  in  and  fought  them  with  me  this 
afternoon.  Whole  thing  very  silly.  Neither  of  us  hurt  at 
all.  Burnham  will  stay  to  dinner." 

Mr.  Carroll  looked  at  Burnham  keenly  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Sergeant,"  he  said. 

"American  Legion  Veteran  Attacked  By  Strikers!"  an- 
nounced the  newspaper  headlines  next  morning. 

"The  striking  dock  and  dray  men  added  another  outrage 
to  their  intolerable  behavior  when  they  yesterday  violently 
attacked  former  Captain  Stacey  Carroll,  D.S.C.,  a,  hero  of 


The  Lonely  Warrior  95 

numerous  battles  in  the  late  World  War  and  son  of  Edward 
H.  Carroll  of  this  city.  Captain  Carroll  had  gone  to  strike 
headquarters  at  13  Plumb  Street  at  about  five  o'clock  yester- 
day afternoon  in  a  generous  attempt  to  learn  the  men's  side 
of  the  case.  His  friendly  questions,  however,  were  met  by  a 
brutal  assault.  This  time,  however,  the  strikers  mistook 
their  man,  and  the  only  result  of  the  attempted  outrage  is 
that  Michael  Dennis  (24)  has  a  broken  nose,  Vladimir  Saro- 
vitch  (20)  a  black  and  blue  facial  coloring  that  improve^ 
his  former  appearance,  while  Lorenzo  Cecchi  (21)  is  in  the 
City  Hospital  with  a  fractured  wrist.  The  public  will  be  re- 
lieved to  learn  that  Captain  Carroll  is  uninjured  except  for  a 
few  superficial  bruises.  Dennis  and  Sarovitch  were  arrested 
on  a  charge  of  assault  and  battery  but  were  promptly  re- 
leased on  bail,  money,  as  is  well  known,  being  plentiful  at 
strike  headquarters. 

"This  brutal  and  uncalled-for  assault  upon  a  hero  of  the 
World  War  marks"  .  .  .  etc. 

Stacey  was  infuriated.  He  wrote  a  sharp  letter  to  the 
paper,  then,  with  grudging  common  sense,  tore  it  up  and 
wrote  another  milder  one  in  which  he  protested  that  the 
whole  affair  was  due  to  a  misunderstanding  and  was  any- 
way too  unimportant  to  deserve  mention  in  the  press. 

He  went  to  the  hospital  to  see  Cecchi,  a  handsome  dark- 
haired  Neapolitan  who  stared  at  him  angrily  at  first  out  of 
immense  black  eyes  till  Stacey  apologized  to  him  in  Italian, 
after  which  the  two  conversed  in  that  language  with  an  in- 
creasing good  humor  that  was  heightened  by  their  puzzled 
pauses  over  Stacey's  mistakes  and  Cecchi's  dial'ect.  The 
interview  put  them  almost  on  terms  of  intimacy.  Stacey 
gave  the  Neapolitan,  who  had  fought  in  the  Battle  of  the 
Piave,  some  Austrian  bank-notes  printed  in  Italian  for  use 
in  Venetia  during  the  invasion,  and  Cecchi  responded  with  a 
tiny  silver  medal  of  the  Madonna. 


96  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Accidentiallastampa!"  (damn  newspapers !)  they  agreed 
heartily. 

But  Stacey's  pleasant  frame  of  mind  on  leaving  the  hospi- 
tal was  destroyed  by  his  glimpse  of  the  morning  paper's 
noon  edition.  His  letter  was  there,  but  ruined  by  the  cap" 
tion  above:  "Captain  Carroll's  Generous  Reply — Makes 
Light  of  Cowardly  Attack — Would  Exonerate  Strikers," 
and  by  the  fulsome  eulogy  of  his  behavior  that  followed.  A 
vibrant  editorial  completed  the  wreck,  insisting  that  while 
the  personal  magnanimity  shown  in  Captain  Carroll's  letter 
must  appeal  to  every  red-blooded  citizen,  the  time  had  at 
last  come  when  law  and  order  must  be  ...  etc. 

Without  the  slightest  desire  to  align  himself  either  on  one 
side  or  the  other,  save  that  he  felt  a  little  more  personal 
sympathy  with  the  strikers,  who  anyway  lived  in  touch  with 
the  few  realities  of  life,  than  with  their  opponents,  Stacey 
saw  himself  established  irremediably  as  a  Saint-George-like 
champion  of  law  and  order.  He  damned  the  press  more 
earnestly  than  before.  He  lunched  at  the  club  with  his 
father,  whose  eyes  shone  with  approval  of  him,  and  he  had, 
moreover,  to  undergo  an  ordeal'  of  praise  and  congratulation 
from  his  father's  friends,  together  with  briefer,  less  intense 
words  from  men  of  his  own  age.  (The  younger  men,  he 
told  himself,  were  anyhow  less  grandiloquent  nowadays 
than  the  older,  though  perhaps  this  was  only  because  they 
were  younger).  Once  or  twice  he  tried  impatiently  to  ex- 
plain the  silly  business  as  it  really  was,  but  unavailingly. 
Anything  he  said  was  taken,  he  saw,  as  merely  a  further 
proof  of  his  generosity.  He  gave  up  the  attempt  sulkily. 
Clearly  his  position  was  fixed.  People  had  made  up  their 
minds  about  him,  his  reputation  was  solidly  established,  and 
nothing  he  might  henceforth  do  could  affect  it.  It  struck 
him  that  the  levity  with  which  people  acquired  convictions 
would  be  ghastly  if  it  were  not  so  ridiculous. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  97 

Deserting  the  club  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  he  wandered 
aimlessly  about  the  city.  But  toward  five  o'clock,  being 
caught  in  a  sudden  rain-shower,  he  took  refuge  in  Philip 
Blair's  house. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  were  other  houses  closer-by 
that  would  have  afforded  shelter,  and  it  was  at  least  partly 
from  preference  that  he  chose  this  one.  He  had  not  re- 
gained his  old  warm  affection  for  Phil  and  Catherine,  but 
their  society  was  like  a  temporary  balm  applied  to  his 
fevered  restless  mind.  No  touch  of  greed  was  in  them. 
They  were,  Stacey  concluded,  hardly  human. 

Phil  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  office,  but  Catherine 
was  at  home  with  her  two  sons — Carter,  now  nine  years  old, 
and  Jack,  who  was  seven. 

She  welcomed  him  with  her  pleasant  smile,  that  was  like 
light  shining  coolly  through  an  alabaster  bowl,  but  also  with 
characteristic  constraint.  She  was  only  perfectly  at  ease 
with  him  when  Phil,  too,  was  present  and  less  demand  for 
expression  was  thus  put  upon  her.  "Shy,"  thought  Stacey 
once  again.  "Shy  as  Truth  herself  !"  But  he  did  not  mind 
her  shyness;  he  liked  it.  Being  with  Catherine  was  like 
bathing  in  a  bottomless  pool  of  clear  translucent  water. 
Fancies  such  as  this,  resembling  those  among  which  he  had 
formerly  lived  so  familiarly,  came  to  him  now  only  when  he 
was  with  the  Blairs.  The  fact  should  have  revealed  to  him 
much  that  was  obscure  in  himself ;  but  it  did  not. 

There  was  no  constraint  in  Carter's  and  Jack's  greetings. 

"Uncle  Stacey,"  cried  Carter  immediately,  "I  got  A  in 
arithmetic  on  my  report  in  New  York  and  A  in  reading  and 
B-Plus  in  spelling!" 

"Well,  that's  good,"  said  Stacey.  "What  did  you  get  in 
conduct  ?" 

Catherine  smiled. 

"C-Plus,"  said  Carter  in  a  small  voice.    But  his  depres- 


98  The  Lonely  Warrior 

sion  did  not  last  I'ong.  "Uncle  Stacey,"  he  exclaimed,  "do 
'Fly  away,  Jack !  Fly  away,  Jill !'  for  him."  He  pointed  to 
his  brother.  "I  bet  he  can't  guess  the  secret!  I  bet  he'll 
look  all  over  the  room  for  them!"  And  Carter  grinned  a 
delighted  toothless  grin. 

"H'm !"  observed  Stacey,  obediently  making  the  necessary 
preparations,  "I  remember  some  one  else  who  looked  all 
over  the  room  for  them  a  few  years  ago." 

"I  guess  you  mean  me,"  Carter  replied.  "Well,  I  guess  I 
did.  I  guess  I  was  awful  stupid  maybe." 

"Carter,"  said  his  mother,  with  a  laugh,  "there  aren't 
that  many  'guesses'  in  the  whole  dictionary." 

Presently  Phil  arrived.  He  looked  tired  with  the  heat, 
but  his  thin  face  brightened  when  he  saw  Stacey  there  play- 
ing with  the  boys. 

"Stacey,  you're  a  fraud!"  he  said.  "What  sort  of  be- 
havior is  this  for  a  misanthrope?  You  ought  to  be  gloating 
over  what  Jack  and  Carter  will  grow  up  to  be." 

Catherine  put  an  end  to  the  game  and  sent  the  boys  out 
to  play  on  the  porch.  "Yes,"  she  said,  as  she  closed  the  door 
upon  them,  "I  guess  Stacey  doesn't  mean  all  he  says.  I 
guess  he's  really  kind-hearted.  I  guess  he  likes  children, 
maybe." 

Phil  stared  at  his  wife  and  smiled.  "For  heaven's  sake, 
Catherine,"  he  demanded,  "what's  come  over  your  English?" 

Stacey  laughed.  "Corrupting  effect  of  Carter,"  he  ex- 
plained. "Yes,  of  course  I  like  children." 

"Would  you  like  to  have  some  of  your  own  ?"  Phil  asked. 

Stacey  reflected,  frowning.  "Yes,"  he  replied  at  last,  "I 
think  so.  Just  one,  a  boy,  so  that  I  could  try  bringing 
him  up." 

Phil  and  Catherine  both  laughed. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  the  former,  "this  is  delightful .' 
Fancy  finding  you  not  merely  humanly  usual  but  positively 


The  Lonely  Warrior  99 

universal — a  bachelor  with  theories  on  education !  What  is 
your  present  theory,  my  son?" 

Stacey  smiled.  However,  it  had  become  difficult  for  him 
to  smile,  and  when  he  did  so  his  face  took  on  uneasy  lines. 
He  was  not  at  his  best  when  smiling.  He  was  at  his  best 
when  his  face  remained  impassive  and  soldierly. 

"Oh,"  he  said  drily,  "it's  a  romantic  enough  theory,  quite 
Rousseau-like.  I've  just  invented  it  this  minute.  If  I  had  a 
son  I  shoul'd  take  him  to  live  in  the  country,  in  some  place 
where  the  landscape  was  neither  too  grand,  and  thus  apt  to 
arouse  vast  disturbing  aspirations  in  him,  nor  yet  ignomini- 
ous and  depressing,  like  these  dingy  middle-western  plains. 
I  would  have  him  live  among  trees,  that  are  handsome  and 
do  no  harm,  and  associate  familiarly  with  a  great  many 
kindly  simple-minded  animals  such  as  dogs,  cows  and 
horses,  with  a  few  cultivated  elegant  animals  such  as  cats, 
and — less  frequently  and  intimately — with  one  or  two  goats, 
who  are  old,  sophisticated  and  skeptical,  the  libres  penseurs 
among  animals." 

"And  with  no  humans  at  all,  eh?" 

"Well,"  said  Stacey  dubiously,  "perhaps  now  and  then 
an  occasional,  very  choice  human,  such  as  you  or  Catherine, 
just  to  show  him  what  human  beings  can  become, — but 
rarely,  Phil,  rarely !" 

"Thanks,  from  Catherine  and  myself,"  Phil  observed, 
with  a  rather  weary  smile,  "but  I'd  rather  you'd  select  some 
one  else.  I  should  be  profoundly  unwilling  to  pose  as  an 
example." 

"And  I!"  echoed  Catherine.  "Besides,  I  shouldn't  have 
time.  I  should  have  to  be  getting  dinner  for  Phil  and  the 
boys — just  as  I  must  do  now."  And  she  rose.  "I've  not 
been  able  to  find  a  maid  yet." 

But  Stacey,  considering  Catherine  and  Phil,  perceived, 
with  a  softening  touch  of  sympathy,  that  they  were  both 


ioo  The  Lonely  Warrior 

very  tired  and  that  no  doubt  he  had  been  adding  to  their 
fatigue.  These  two  lived  with  a  life  of  their  own,  apart, 
serene,  modestly  adding  their  few  grains  of  pure  gold  to  that 
appallingly  small'  treasure  which  represented  the  sole  re- 
mainder of  all  these  ages  and  ages  of  human  existence.  Yet 
because  they  did  so,  thought  Stacey,  because  they  were  clear 
pin-points  of  light  in  chaos,  all  life  was  against  them,  chill- 
ingly indifferent  where  not  actively  hostile.  The  blackness 
swirled  about  with  a  malignant,  dully  sentient  desire  to 
engulf  and  extinguish  them.  They  were  repaid  for  their 
foolhardy  torch-bearing,  their  unforgivable  sin  of  having 
some  meaning,  by  being  ground  down  beneath  the  sordid 
difficulties  of  bare  existence.  Ames  Price,  who  played  golf, 
or  Jimmy  Prout,  who  tried  law  suits,  or  Colin  Jeffries,  who 
handled  a  dozen  corporations  of  no  value  to  life,  had  carpets 
unrolled  obsequiously  before  them  as  they  walked;  while 
Phil  must  wear  his  genius  frayed  on  hack  labor  and  Cather- 
ine must  cook  for  her  family  in  a  small  hot  kitchen.  "What 
a  brute  of  a  worl'd!  What  an  ugly  perverse  mess  of  a 
world!"  thought  Stacey,  with  a  fierce  sick  disgust.  Worth 
nothing !  Its  hard  won  treasure  was  too  tiny  to  justify  such 
a  colossal  grovelling  incoherence. 

But  while  Stacey  was  reflecting  moodily  in  this  manner 
Catherine  had  gone  into  the  kitchen.  Stacey  could  hear 
her  there,  moving  pots  and  pans.  Suddenly  he  sprang  up 
and  went  out  after  her. 

"Look  here,  Catherine!"  he  said.  "It's  too  hot  to  cook 
this  evening !  Come  on  out  with  me.  We'll  all  go  and  have 
dinner  at  a  chop-suey  place.  The  boys,  too,  of  course." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully  for  just  a  moment,  then 
smiled.  "Thank  you,  Stacey,"  she  said  simply.  "That  will 
be  awfully  pleasant.  I  think  Phil  is  pretty  tired.  I'll  go  and 
get  the  boys  ready." 


CHAPTER  VII 

STAGEY  and  Mrs.  Latimer  were  having  tea  together.  But, 
since  Stacey  had  ceased  to  visit  the  Latimer  home,  they  were 
having  it  at  the  "Sign  of  the  Purple  Parrot." 

This  was  a  small  but  expensive  tea-room  recently  opened 
on  the  fifth  floor  of  a  building  close  to  the  river  front,  and 
Stacey,  as  he  entered  it  (for  the  first  time),  glanced  swiftly 
about  at  its  white  walls,  low  white  ceiling,  small-paned  win- 
dows with  hangings  of  purple-figured  cretonne,  and  at  the 
purple  wooden  parrot  on  a  tall  standard  in  the  centre  of  the 
room.  A  silver  vase  containing  a  single  yellow  rose  deco- 
rated each  of  the  ten  or  twelve  little  tables.  Finally  Stacey 
turned  in  mute  amazement  to  his  companion,  since  it  was 
she  who  had  suggested  the  place. 

"They  have  very  good  tea,"  she  said,  with  an  amused 
smile. 

However,  Miss  Wilcox,  proprietor  of  the  tea-room,  ad- 
vanced toward  them.  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come  early, 
before  any  one  else,  Mrs.  Latimer,"  she  said,  "because  you 
can  have  one  of  the  two  tables  out  on  the  balcony.  I'm  sure 
you'd  like  that.  They're  always  the  first  to  go." 

And  accordingly  they  went  outside  and  sat  down  in  wicker 
chairs  beneath  a  purple  and  white  awning. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  nice  idea,"  asked  Miss  Wilcox, 
standing  near  them,  "to  try  and  use  our  river  esthetically, 
Captain  Carroll?  It  is  Captain  Carroll,  isn't  it?  I  recog- 
nized you  from  your  photograph.  We're  honored  to  have 
you  come.  It  seems  such  a  shame  to  have  this  magnificent 
river  and  then  use  it  solely  for  ugly  business  purposes.  But 
that's  so  often  true  in  America,  I  think.  Saint  Louis  is  the 

101 


io2  The  Lonely  Warrior 

same  way.  I  should  so  like  to  have  my  modest  little  effort 
followed  by  others." 

Stacey  said  politely  that  he  hoped  it  would  be,  and  Miss 
Wilcox  presently  moved  away. 

"You  mustn't  mind  her,  poor  thing!"  Mrs.  Latimer  ob- 
served kindly.  "She's  devoted  to  her  institution.  It's  her 
child." 

"Preposterous  virgin  birth!"  murmured  Stacey,  gazing 
down  at  the  river. 

It  sweltered  in  the  intense  August  sunlight.  Barges  and 
tugs  moved  up  and  down  its  sallow  waters,  and  vast  ware- 
houses flanked  it.  Across  on  the  further  side  was  a  train 
yard  with  multitudes  of  red  freight  cars,  idle  or  with  en- 
gines shunting  them  about.  Trucks  and  drays  rattled  over 
the  cobble  stones  of  the  streets  leading  down  to  the  river 
(the  strike  having  been  settled  some  weeks  since),  and 
shouts  rose  and  the  odor  of  grease.  And  Stacey,  turning 
away  from  it  to  order  tea  and  scones  from  a  capped  and 
aproned  maid  who  had  come  to  his  side,  looked  at  her  as 
though  he  did  not  believe  in  her. 

"A  movie  world,  Mrs.  Latimer,"  he  remarked  finally. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  silly,  isn't  it  ?  This  painted  parrot, 
and  the  tea  roses,  and  the  tiny,  fussy,  white-and-purple 
room,  trying  to  make  itself  noticed  by  that  immense  fierce 
reality  out  there !  But  it  doesn't  do  any  harm,  and  I  thought 
the  incongruity  of  it  might  amuse  you.  Where  has  your 
sense  of  humor  gone,  Stacey?  Once  you  would  have 
laughed  gaily  at  this." 

"Where  does  a  china  tea-cup  go  in  an  earthquake?"  he 
responded  absently,  looking  down  again  at  the  river,  then 
back  at  the  room.  "No,  of  course  there's  no  harm  in  it," 
he  said,  after  a  moment,  "since  it  is  so  obviously  absurd, 
but  you  might,  I  suppose,  take  it  as  a  fantastic  caricature  of 
something — " 


The  Lonely  Warrior  103 

But  Miss  Wilcox  was  seating  people  at  the  other  table 
of  the  balcony.  ".  .  .  so  often  true  in  America,  I  think," 
she  was  saying.  "I  should  like  to  have  my  modest  little 
effort  followed  by  others." 

Mrs.  Latimer  smiled,  but  Stacey  did  not.  He  waited  im- 
passively until  Miss  Wilcox  had  finished  speaking  and  had 
walked  away. 

"Now  in  the  movies,"  he  continued,  "you  are  presented 
with  standards  of  behavior — sweetness  and  light,  purity 
unsoiled,  virtue  triumphant,  best  of  all  possible  worlds — 
that  have  nothing  to  do  with  real  life.  Seems  impossible 
that  real  men  and  women  could  have  posed  for  the  pictures. 
You'd  think  the  contrast  with  the  promiscuity  of  their  actual 
California  divorce-court  lives  would  be  too  strong.  Not  a 
bit  of  it!  Well,  that's  all  right — if  people  like  that  kind  of 
thing.  Personally,  I  think  it's  sickening.  No  matter  how 
abominable  real  life  is,  I'd  a  thousand  times  rather  have  to 
live  in  it  than  in  a  Pollyanna,  Mary  Pickford,  glad-and- 
tender  world !  Faugh !" 

"So  should  I,"  said  Mrs.  Latimer.  "But  if  weary  people 
find  rel'ease  in  such  tawdry  fairy-tales — " 

"Sure!  Let  them!  Nobody's  business!  But  there's  the 
trouble.  The  silly  stuff  isn't  just  taken  as  release.  It  gets 
accepted  as  truth.  I  mean  to  say,  the  ideals  and  standards 
are  taken  as  those  of  real  people.  How  in  heaven's  name 
they  can  be  by  any  member  of  a  movie  audience  who  knows 
anything  about  himself,  I  swear  I  can't  imagine,  but 
they  are." 

"Ah,  but  that's  the  point!"  said  Mrs.  Latimer  gently. 
"They  don't  know  themselves.  Even  you  don't  know  your- 
self, Stacey." 

"I  know  enough  about  myself  to  see  that  I'm  not  like 
that.  And  what  results?  That  any  glimpse  of  truth  is  con- 
demned as  rotten,  abnormal,  pathological.  For  the  movies 


104  The  Lonely  Warrior 

are  only  a  glowing  example  of  a  spirit  that  corrupts  every- 
thing. Why,  if  a  novelist  were  to  take  any  man  alive — I 
don't  say  me,  but  somebody  better — Jimmy  Prout,  for  in- 
stance— and  tell  the  whole  truth  about  him,  the  ghastly, 
things  he  did  and  the  ghastlier  ones  he  wanted  to  do  but 
didn't  dare,  what  a  row  there'd  be!  The  reviewers  would 
call  the  book  abominable,  the  hero  a  hopeless  rotter,  though 
every  one  of  them  has  done  or  wanted  to  do  things  just  as 
bad.  A  movie  world,  Mrs.  Latimer !  No  truth  in  it !" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "no  doubt.  I'd  like  it  different,  honester. 
But  what  harm  does  the  pretence  do  ?  It  even  sets  a  stand- 
ard of  a  sort,  doesn't  it?" 

"What  harm  ?"  he  cried.  "Why,  it  makes  people  shocked 
at  German  atrocities,  as  though  they  were  sins  committed 
by  some  alien  inhuman  monsters.  Down  with  Prussianism  ? 
As  much  as  you  like!  I'm  glad  we  beat  the  Germans.  So 
far,  so  good.  But  how  about  the  Prussianism  in  ourselves  ? 
A  movie  world !  A  smug,  lying,  movie  world !" 

"But  there  is  kindliness  in  it,  too,"  she  said  wistfully, 
"and  generosity.  I've  met  them  both." 

"Yes,"  Stacey  assented  somberly,  "there  is — in  sudden 
impulses,  more  frequent,  I'll  even  concede,  than  these  pass- 
ing gusts  of  bestiality.  But,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  there's 
only  one  real  force,  one  motive,  in  life,  that  stays  on  and  on 
and  never  dies.  Greed!"  he  concluded  fiercely. 

Mrs.  Latimer  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"And  still  you  don't  see  it  all,"  she  said  at  last  very 
gently.  "You  won't  look  deeply  enough  into  yourself.  If 
you  did  you'd  see  the  splendid  spectacle  of  the  human  soul 
fighting  all  this  that  you  describe — and  without  quarter, 
dear  Stacey,  as  long  as  you  have  breath  in  you.  Has  your 
hatred  *of  greed  and  lies  no  significance  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  drawing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead.  "And  I  don't  see  that  I'm  doing  any  splendid 


The  Lonely  Warrior  105 

fighting.  I  don't  know  what  to  fight.  I  merely  fume  im- 
potently."  But  the  wild  look  of  pain  had  disappeared  from 
his  eyes. 

He  fell  to  wondering  about  his  companion.  No  optimist, 
surely.  Doubtful  of  most  things,  but  sweet  and  mellow  in 
her  skepticism.  How  had  she  attained  such  serenity  ? 

"You  must  know  Catherine,  my  friend  Philip  Blair's 
wife,"  he  said  suddenly.  "You  will  like  her,  and  she  you. 
There's  truth  in  the  hearts  of  both  of  you,  and  yet  you're 
different,  somehow." 

"When  you  do  say  pretty  things,  they're  pleasant  to  hear, 
Stacey,"  Mrs.  Latimer  replied,  with  a  faint  girlish  blush, 
"because  you  seem  not  ever  to  be  saying  them  for  effect." 

Soon  they  rose  to  go.  Neither  of  them  had  so  much  as 
alluded  to  the  fact  that  Marian  was  to  be  married  to  Ames 
Price  in  a  few  weeks. 

That  same  evening  Stacey  attended  a  meeting  of  the 
American  Legion.  His  life  was  like  that  now,  inconsequen- 
tial. He  went  pointlessly  from  one  unrelated  fact  to 
another. 

Being  in  a  far  from  constructive  frame  of  mind,  he  had 
nothing  against  the  Legion  and  nothing  in  favor  of  it.  It 
had  indeed  occurred  to  him  that  if  an  organization  founded 
on  no  common  conviction,  but  on  the  mere  fact  that  its 
members  had  all  been  in  the  army,  should  come  to  exert 
political  influence,  that  influence  would  certainly  be  con- 
fusing and  might  be  harmful ;  on  the  contrary,  if  the  young 
men  who  had  been  soldiers  wanted  to  play  together,  why 
not?  But  these  were  idle  thoughts.  At  heart  he  did  not 
care  one  way  or  the  other  about  the  Legion.  If  he  had 
shown  more  interest  he  might  perhaps,  in  view  of  his  record, 
have  been  elected  commander  of  the  post ;  but  this  is  doubt- 
ful. He  was  a  wealthy  son  of  a  wealthy  father,  and  class 
antagonisms  were  not  absent  from  the  Legion. 


io6  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Up  to  now  he  had  attended  only  one  meeting,  but  he  had 
learned  that  to-night  a  protest  was  to  be  presented  against 
the  engagement  of  Fritz  Kreisler  to  play  in  Vernon  in  the 
coming  autumn;  and  Stacey,  disgusted,  was  out  to  see  if 
there  was  anything  he  could  do  to  head  off  such  nonsense. 

It  was  a  full  meeting.  There  were  several  hundred  men 
in  the  large  hall  when  Stacey  entered,  and  tobacco  smoke 
hung  over  them  in  a  dull  blue  mist.  The  commander  of  the 
post  was  already  in  the  chair,  and  the  business  of  reading 
minutes  was  under  way.  Stacey  dropped  into  a  seat  and 
waited  abstractedly. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  Excitement  buzzed  in  a 
group  near  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  a  young  captain 
sprang  up.  Stacey  knew  him  by  sight.  His  unit  was  that 
to  which  Jimmy  Prout  had  belonged.  It  had  never  left 
Camp  Grant. 

"Mr.  Commander  and  Comrades!"  he  began  tensely. 
"You  know  what  I  want  to  say.  It's  about  this  business 
of  letting  an  enemy  come  here  and  take  our  money,  just  as 
if  nothing  had  ever  happened.  You  know  who  I  mean.  I 
mean  Kreisler.  Kreisler  was  our  enemy  in  the  war.  It 
doesn't  make  any  difference  that  he  didn't  happen  to  fight 
against  Americans  or  that  he  was  out  of  it  before  we  went 
in.  He  was  on  the  wrong  side.  He  supported  the  side  that 
did  all  the — the  atrocities  you  know  about.  And  what  I 
want  to  say  is  that  if  we're  asked  to  give  him  our  support 
and  our  money  it's  an  outrage.  And  so,"  he  added,  unfold- 
ing a  paper,  "I  propose  the  following  motion : 

"We,  the  members  of  the  John  Harton  Post  of  the  Ameri- 
can Legion,  hereby  express  our  amazement  and  strong  dis- 
approval of  the  action  of  the  manager  of  the  Park  Street 
Theatre  in  engaging  Fritz  Kreisler,  recently  a  soldier  in 
the  Austrian  army,  to  play  at  a  concert  in  the  city  of  Vernon 
less  than  one  year  after  the  conclusion  of  a  great  war  during 


The  Lonely  Warrior  107 

which  thousands  of  American  lives  were  sacrificed  to  defeat 
the  very  principles  that  Herr  Kreisler  supported.  And  we 
hereby  request  the  manager  of  said  theatre  to  cancel  Herr 
Kreisler's  engagement,  and  notify  him  that  failure  to  do  so 
will  result  in  an  attitude  of  marked  disinclination  to  patronize 
said  theatre  on  the  part  of  the  members  of  this  post." 

And  the  young  captain  sat  down  amid  applause,  during 
which  half  a  dozen  voices  seconded  the  motion. 

"Are  there  any  remarks?"  asked  the  chairman  calmly. 

Stacey  was  smiling  a  little  at  the  contrast  between  the 
phraseology  of  the  introduction  and  that  of  the  motion,  but, 
half  risen  in  his  seat,  he  was  also  looking  about  him  keenly. 
It  did  not  strike  him  that  the  tensity  was  universal.  There 
were  sluggish  centres  of  indifference  in  the  hall,  and  not 
many  remarks  were  being  made. 

Presently  he  rose  to  his  feet,  obtained  recognition,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  front  of  the  room  amid  some  consider- 
able interest. 

"I  quite  agree  with  Captain  Small,"  he  said,  leaning 
against  the  chairman's  desk,  "that  it  doesn't  make  any  dif- 
ference that  Kreisler  was  an  Austrian  instead  of  a  German, 
and  that  the  unit  in  which  he  fought  never  faced  an  American 
unit.  Aside  from  that,  I  disagree  with  him  in  everything.  It 
strikes  me  that  for  this  post  to  pass  any  such  motion  as  that 
proposed  would  be  silly.  Kreisler  fought  against  us  ?  Well, 
what  of  it?  So  did  a  lot  of  other  good  men.  If  we  don't 
admit  that  we  depreciate  our  own  achievement.  Gentlemen, 
I  call  to  your  attention  the  advice  given  some  months  since 
by  a  newspaper  in  Rome.  'There  are  a  large  number  of 
people  sitting  in  a  large  number  of  offices,  and  especially 
those  who  never  saw  service  at  the  front,'  this  paper  said, 
'who  ought  to  be  made  to  write :  The  war  is  over!  The  war 
is  over!  twenty  times  a  day  until  they  get  the  fact  into  their 
heads'." 


io8  The  Lonely  Warrior 

There  was  a  murmur  of  laughter;  but  Captain  Small  wa§ 
on  his  feet,  protesting  angrily.  "Mr.  Commander!"  he 
cried,  "I  object  to  the  insinuation  that  Captain  Carroll  has 
made — I  mean  to  say,  that  I  never  saw  active  service.  If  I 
didn't  it  wasn't  my  fault,  and  I — " 

The  chairman  rapped  with  his  gavel.  "I  am  sure  Captain 
Carroll  intended  no  such  suggestion,"  he  observed.  "Go 
on,  Captain." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Stacey  coolly.  "It  was  through  no 
fault  of  Captain  Small's  that  he  did  not  get  to  France.  He 
was,  I  believe,  one  of  the  first  to  volunteer  upon  America's 
entry  into  the  war.  But,  having  made  that  perfectly  clear, 
and  since  the  point  has  arisen,  I  call  it  to  your  attention  that 
both  the  proposer  of  this  motion  and  those  who  seconded  it 
happen  to  be  men  who,  though  through  no  fault  of  their 
own,  did  not  see  fighting." 

A  rumble  of  voices  interrupted  him,  but  he  waved  his 
hand  for  silence. 

"Wait  a  minute !  Let  me  finish !  I  say  this  not  to  create 
dissension,  but  because  I  want  to  show  that  I'm  speaking 
not  just  for  myself  but  for  the  point  of  view  of  the  men 
who  had  the  luck — good  or  bad — to  fight  the  Germans  in 
Flanders  and  the  Argonne." 

He  leaned  forward  and  scrutinized  the  faces  of  the  audi- 
ence swiftly.  There  was  something  compelling  in  his  pres- 
ence. Undoubtedly  he  dominated  the  crowd,  even  against 
their  will. 

"You  Franck !"  he  called  sharply.  "Are  you  against  let- 
ting Kreisler  play?" 

"N-naw !"  stammered  the  man  addressed,  startled. 

"And  you,  Davies?  You,  Markovitch?  You,  Einstein? 
Jones?  Thorburtson  ?" 

"No !"— "No !"— shakes  of  the  head— negatives  all. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  109 

"Bruce?" 

"Jesus  Christ !  no,  Captain !    Let  him  play  and — " 

Laughter  broke  out  tumultuously,  and  the  chairman 
pounded  with  his  gavel. 

"That's  all,"  said  Stacey,  and  sat  down. 

"I  think,"  said  the  commander,  when  silence  had  been 
partly  restored,  "that  it  would  be  unfortunate  to  divide  this 
organization  up  into  those  who  saw  fighting  and  those  who 
did  not.  We  should  stick  together  in  everything."  But 
his  words  were  perfunctory.  He  had  been  severely  wounded 
at  Les  Eparges.  "All  in  favor  of  the  motion  signify  by 
saying  Aye.  Opposed,  No." 

The  motion  was  lost. 

Stacey  had  won.  But  he  was  under  no  illusions.  He  had 
won  by  force,  and  he  had  made  more  enemies  than  friends. 
When  he  left  the  hall  at  the  end  of  the  meeting  he  was  a 
solitary  figure  at  whom  men  looked  from  a  distance.  He 
did  not  care.  He  preferred  his  solitude. 

But  outside,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  Edwards,  the  com- 
mander, caught  up  with  him  and  limped  off  beside  him.  He 
was  a  mechanic  and  a  student,  self-educated,  and  popular 
with  labor.  In  high  quarters  he  was  solemnly  suspected  of 
being  a  socialist. 

"What  you  said  was  right  enough,  Carroll,"  he  observed 
meditatively.  "The  trouble  was  with  the  way  you  said  it. 
Too  much  outside.  Too  harsh  and  scornful." 

"Quite  true,"  Stacey  assented.  "That  happens  to  be  the 
way  I  personally  am — harsh  and  scornful." 

Edwards  shook  his  head.  "You  saw  too  much  of  it,  I 
guess,  Carroll,"  he  remarked.  "Four  whole  years,  wasn't 
it?  God  in  heaven!  And  more  mud  than  we  ever  saw. 
Years  more  of  mud !  Filthy  thing,  the  war,  wasn't  it?" 

Stacey  laughed  shortly.    "^Wait  twenty  years  and  see  how 


no  The  Lonely  Warrior 

people  talk  about  it,"  he  said.  "Banners  waving!  Steel- 
capped  heroes !  Glory !  Glory !  We'll  be  talking  that  way, 
too." 

They  walked  on  in  silence. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Edwards,"  said  Stacey  suddenly,  "you're 
a  labor  man.  I  wish  to  God  you'd  set  me  right  about  that 
strike  business.  The  thing  was  too  silly  the  way  it  got  into 
those  rotten  papers.  I — " 

Edwards  was  laughing  quietly.  "Pshaw !"  he  interrupted. 
''Do  you  think  we  don't  know  the  facts?  That's  one  thing 
we  do  know.  The  boys  aren't  down  on  you.  They're  not 
even  down  on  Burnham  now,  though  he  did  turn  against 
them.  Can't  say  that  you're  personally  popular — too  harsh 
and  scornful,  but  you're  respected." 

"Well,  that's  good,"  said  Stacey,  with  genuine  relief. 

"You  ought  to  crawl  through  the  needle's  eye  and  come  in 
with  us,"  Edwards  added,  after  a  moment.  "I  don't  believe 
you  give  a  damn  for  your  money." 

"You  do,  though, — you  labor  people,"  Stacey  returned 
coldly.  "You're  out  for  all  you  can  get,  regardless.  How 
do  you  expect  me  to  take  sides  either  for  or  against  you? 
Greed  on  one  hand,  greed  on  the  other.  Everywhere." 

"Saw  too  much  of  it,  Carroll',"  Edwards  repeated.  "Years 
too  much.  'Night.  I  turn  down  here." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARIAN  was  married  at  Saint  Grace's  early  in  September, 
and  Stacey  was  present  at  the  wedding. 

A  number  of  people  looked  at  him  curiously,  for  it  was 
known  to  some  that  he  and  the  bride  had  formerly  been 
engaged ;  but  they  found  nothing  in  Stacey's  face  or  bearing 
to  reward  them.  There  was  general  interest  in  the  wedding, 
since  Ames  Price  and  Marian  Latimer  were  both  promi- 
nent; there  were  no  excited  whispered  comments.  No  gos- 
sip linked  Stacey's  name  with  Marian's.  And,  indeed,  it  is 
an  odd  fact  that  it  was  difficult  for  a  man  and  still  more 
difficult  for  a  woman  to  get  talked  about  adversely  in  Ver- 
non.  This  was  particularly  true  if  they  were  socially  promi- 
nent. In  that  case  they  must  do  something  almost  publicly 
scandalous,  must  literally  be  "asking  for  it."  Which  unfor- 
tunately does  not  signify  that  morals  were  any  higher  in 
Vernon  than  elsewhere. 

Stacey's  sensations  were  as  mixed  as  ever.  He  was  able 
to  perceive  the  smooth  elegance  of  the  show,  made  up  of 
the  flowers,  the  soft  light  creeping  through  the  stained  glass 
windows  of  the  handsome  church,  the  rustling  of  costly 
dresses,  the  low  murmur  of  fashionable  voices,  the  smiles, 
the  easy  greetings,  the  ushers,  and  the  discreet  music  of  the 
organ.  And  he  was  even  able  to  note  that,  though  Marian 
was  fetching  enough  to  arouse  at  her  appearance  on  her 
father's  arm  a  sudden  hum  of  admiration  before  silence  fell 
softly,  she  was  not  really  at  her  best  in  that  trailing  lace-and- 
satin  wedding  gown.  No,  she  was  more  beautiful  in  a  plain 
tailor-made  suit  with  a  short  skirt.  She  would  have  looked 
best  of  all  with  her  fair  hair  drawn  back  simply  and  bound 

in 


ii2  The  Lonely  Warrior 

with  a  ribbon,  bare  armed,  and  with  a  kirtle  falling  only  to 
her  knees.  But  beneath  the  surface  calm  of  Stacey's  mind 
fire  smoldered.  He  was  angrily  stirred,  angrily  jealous;  for 
he  had  not  freed  himself  completely  from  desire  of  Marian. 
Had  he,  after  all,  been  a  fool  to  renounce  her  ?  he  wondered. 
He  might  have  stood  there  by  her  side  in  Ames's  place.  But 
at  this  he  caught  himself  up  scornfully.  What?  he  thought 
brutally.  Deliberately  chain  himself  and  her  to  a  life  of 
hopeless  incompatibility  because  he  desired  to  possess  this 
girl's  beautiful  body?  Was  the  craving  of  his  whole  soul 
for  freedom  less  passionate  than  the  mere  craving  of  his 
senses  for  satisfaction? 

Poor  Stacey!  Contradictory,  stormy,  inharmonious! 
Made  up  of  dissonances.  Repelled  by  Marian,  yet  desiring 
her;  avid  of  freedom,  but  avid,  too,  of  hate — an  enslaving 
bond  if  ever  there  was  one ;  more  passionately  and  truly  in 
love  with  beauty  than  ever  before,  yet  destructive  of  it  in 
himself ;  full  of  power  with  nowhere  to  direct  it ;  hard  and 
bitter,  yet  honestly  anguished  by  the  pain  in  the  world. 

The  ceremony  over,  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  church  as 
quickly  as  possible,  but  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  side- 
walk to  glance  at  the  interminable  line  of  handsome  waiting 
motor  cars.  The  irony  in  their  expensive  patronage  of  one 
of  Christ's  churches  made  him  suddenly  smile.  Then  he 
set  off  on  foot  for  the  Latimer  house,  where  the  reception 
would  be  held. 

It  was  very  well  done,  he  thought, — adequate,  hand- 
some,—er — elegant,  without  being  vulgarly  lavish;  roses 
enough,  but  not  "bowers"  of  roses — though  "bowers"  was 
what  the  paper  next  morning  woul'd  say  there  had  been; 
champagne  punch,  but  not  tubs  and  pools  of  it;  decent  air  of 
gaiety,  but  no  riot.  Well,  you  could  count  on  Mr.  Latimer 
to  carry  the  thing  off  in  the  right  way.  It  was  what  he  was 


The  Lonely  Warrior  113 

for  Fifty-odd  years  of  careful  training,  with  never  a  mo- 
ment wasted,  had  fitted  him  for  the  task. 

Stacey  wondered  what  Mrs.  Latimer  thought  about  it  all. 
Oh,  she  would  probably  be  as  detached  as  always,  humor- 
ously but  not  unkindly  amused  by  it.  However,  he  had  no 
chance  to  find  out.  Mrs.  Latimer  was  much  too  busy 
receiving. 

His  one  real'  curiosity  was  to  know  how  Marian  would 
look  at  him  when,  in  the  line,  he  shook  her  hand  and  Ames's. 
He  decided  that  she  would  be  candid,  simple  and  virginal, 
as  became  a  bride,  with  no  hint  of  anything  in  her  greeting. 
But  he  was  wrong.  He  was  unfair  to  Marian,  fancying 
her  far  more  deliberate  than  she  really  was.  The  swift 
look  she  gave  him  was  strange  and  enigmatic,  and  stirred 
him.  There  was  a  touch  of  defiance  in  it,  as  though  she  had 
said :  "Weir,  you  would  have  it  this  way !  Do  you  like  what 
you've  done?"  And  he  could  not  blame  her  if  the  words 
she  spoke  were  merely  the  proper  words.  There  were  people 
all  about. 

Later  he  came  upon  his  sister,  Julie. 

"Oh,  Stacey,"  she  said,  "why  couldn't  you  be  nice  and  go 
with  me  to  the  wedding?  Jimmy's  out  of  town,  so  I  went 
all  alone.  I  saw  you  across  the  church  from  me  and  thought 
I'd  pick  you  up  afterward,  but  when  I  came  out  I  couldn't 
find  you  anywhere." 

He  smiled  at  the  protective  solicitude  in  her  tone.  "Oh, 
well,"  he  returned,  "I'll  drive  back  with  you  to  your  house 
for  a  little  chat  when  you're  ready  to  go." 

"I'm  ready  now,"  she  said  quickly,  and  they  went  out  to 
her  electric. 

No  one  else  had  ventured  to  make  any  comment  to  Stacey 
when  Marian's  engagement  to  Ames  Price  had  been  an- 
nounced ;  even  Mr.  Carroll  had  only  looked  at  his  son  in  an 


ii4  The  Lonely  Warrior 

odd  puzzled  way.  But  Julie  had  ventured.  She  had  as- 
serted loyally  that  Stacey  was  much  too  good  for  Marian, 
and  that  Marian  didn't  care  whom  she  married  so  long  as 
he  had  money.  He  had  reflected  at  the  time  that,  though 
Julie  simplified  things  down  to  bare  essentials,  it  was  essen- 
tials that  she  selected.  She  was  not  unlike  their  father  in 
this,  he  thought.  She  returned  to  the  subject  now,  as  they 
glided  along  the  city  streets. 

"I  don't  care !"  she  broke  out  hotly.  "I  think  she's  horrid ! 
Of  course  I  know  it  must  have  been  you  who  broke  off  the 
engagement — now  wasn't  it,  Stacey  ?  Why  won't  you  admit 
it  ?  Why,  anybody  would  be  proud  to  marry  you ! — but  then 
for  her  to  go  and  marry  a  stupid  person  like  Ames  Price, 
old  enough  to  be  her  father,  too,  less  than  three  months 
later, — why,  I  think  it's  cheap!  That's  what  Marian  is — 
cheap !" 

Stacey  laughed,  amused  at  her  desire  to  comfort  him.  He 
enjoyed  being  with  his  sister;  nor  was  there  anything  pa- 
tronizing in  his  feeling  for  her.  He  was  not  doing  so  admir- 
ably with  a  complex  mind  that  he  could  afford  to  look 
comfortably  down  upon  Julie  for  having  a  simple  mind. 
And  she  was  not  stupid.  He  thought  she  did  rather  well 
with  life. 

"Oh,"  he  observed,  "Ames  isn't  as  old  as  all  that !    He's 
only  forty  or  thereabouts.     I'm  almost  thirty-five." 
"Well,  he  looks  hundreds  of  years  older — " 
"Here!     Take  care!"  Stacey  interrupted,  stretching  out 
his  hand  toward  the  lever,  as  the  car  barely  grazed  by  a 
heavily  laden  motor-van.    "Julie,  you're  a  public  menace!" 
" — than  you,  and  he  can't  do  a  thing  except  play  golf." 
Stacey  laughed  again,  this  time  at  Julie's  imperturbable 
calm.     "Everything's  all  right,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "and  you 
needn't  try  to  apply  balm  to  my  bruised  heart,  though  it's 
nice  of  you  to  want  to." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  115 

And  they  got  out,  having  reached  the  Prouts'  handsome 
brick  residence,  the  plans  for  which  Stacey  had  drawn. 

But  the  maid  who  opened  the  door  for  them  followed 
them  into  the  living-room.  "Mis'  Prout,"  she  announced 
tragically,  "Annie's  going  to  leave !" 

"Is  she?"  said  Julie,  drawing  off  her  gloves.  "Well,  that's 
a  nuisance.  Excuse  me  a  minute,  Stacey  dear,  while  I  tele- 
phone. Go  mix  yourself  a  high-ball.  You'll  find  every- 
thing on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room."  And  she  sat 
down  at  a  small  mahogany  desk  and  opened  a  tiny  cupboard 
that  concealed  a  telephone. 

Stacey  obeyed  and  presently  returned  with  his  glass  to 
the  living-room,  where  he  listened  to  his  sister  call  up  two 
employment  agencies  to  make  application  for  a  cook,  and 
telephone  an  advertisement  to  two  newspapers. 

"You  really  are  a  wonder,  Jule!"  he  said,  when  she  had 
closed  the  desk.  "Calm  and  efficient  as  they  make  'em." 

"Oh,"  she  returned,  opening  her  eyes  wide  in  surprise, 
"that's  nothing !  It  happens  so  often  that  I  should  be  a  silly 
if  I  were  upset  by  it  now.  Perhaps  you  noticed  that  I  didn't 
even  have  to  look  the  telephone  numbers  up  in  the  book. 
Now  we  can  talk." 

But  just  at  this  moment  the  maid  returned  to  announce 
the  visit  of  a  Miss  Loeffler,  who  followed  close  upon  the 
maid's  heels. 

"Hello,  Irene,"  said  Julie  pleasantly.  "Glad  you  dropped 
in.  You  don't  know  my  brother,  Stacey,  do  you  ?" 

Miss  Loeffler  gave  Stacey  a  nod  and  a  brief  firm  shake  of 
the  hand,  then  threw  herself  down  on  the  davenport,  crossed 
her  legs,  and  swung  the  right  one  vigorously.  She  looked 
about  twenty-four  years  old,  had  dark  bobbed  hair,  a  small 
pretty  face  with  restless  dark  eyes  and  a  petulant  mouth, 
and  wore  a  brown  street  suit  with  a  very  short  skirt. 

"Of  course  I  don't  approve  of  you,  Captain  Carroll,"  she 


n6  The  Lonely  Warrior 

said  crisply,  "because  you  are  Captain  Carroll,  a  tool  of 
militarism  in  the  late  capitalistic  war.  No,  I'm  glad  to 
meet  you,  but  I  don't  approve  of  you." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,  of  course,  Irene,"  Julie  observed 
placidly. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Stacey,  "even  pity  from  you's  more  dear 
than  that  from  another." 

"Naturally,  if  you  quoted  any  one  at  me,  it  would  have 
to  be  some  one  hopelessly  old-fashioned,  like  Shelley.  Can 
I  have  a  high-ball,  Julie?"  she  asked,  jumping  up.  All  her 
movements  were  abrupt,  like  her  voice. 

"Of  course,"  said  Julie.  "Oh,  no,  Stacey,  don't  try  to  get 
it  for  her.  Irene  will  be  cross  if  you  do." 

Nevertheless,  he  followed  Miss  Loeffler  into  the  dining- 
room  and  at  least  stood  by  while  she  mixed  her  high- 
ball. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  operation,  she  turned  to  him 
and  gazed  into  his  eyes.  "What  are  you  really  like,  Mr. 
Carroll?"  she  demanded  intensely. 

"Awfully  orderly,"  he  replied,  reaching  out  to  restrain 
her  hand  that  held  the  silver  water-bottle.  "Can't  bear  to 
see  things  spilled." 

"Huh!"  she  said  disdainfully. 

They  went  back  to  the  living-room  and  sat  down  again. 

"See  you've  both  been  to  the  wedding,"  remarked  Miss 
Loeffler.  "You  look  it.  Have  a  lingering  odor  of  ceremony 
about  you.  All  very  smooth  and  elegant,  I  suppose  ?"  And 
she  lighted  a  cigarette. 

Julie  was  crocheting.  "No,  Irene,"  she  said,  "you  needn't 
go  around  pretending  to  despise  weddings  and  then  come 
here  and  try  to  worm  a  description  of  this  one  out  of  me. 
If  you  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  like  you  ought  to  have 
gone  to  it  and  seen  for  yourself." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  117 

Stacey  laughed,  as  much  at  his  sister's  keenness  as  at  her 
guest's  eccentricity.  But  Miss  Loeffler  was  vexed. 

"I  don't  pretend !"  she  asserted  holly.  "I  do  dislike  wed- 
dings. And  if  I  ever  want  to  go  and  live  with  a  man  I 
shall,  without  making  a  silly  fuss  about  it,  and  then  when 
either  he  or  I  get  bored  we'll  simply  break  off." 

Julie  sighed.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  a  very  nervous 
wearing  life,"  she  remarked  calmly.  "I  shouldn't  care  for 
it  myself,  but  then  I'm—" 

"Oh,  perfectly  hopeless,  Julie!  You  belong  back  in  the 
eighteen-eighties.  What  do  you  think  about  it,  Mr. 
Carroll?" 

"About  marriage?"  Stacey  asked.  "Nothing  at  all. 
'Doesn't  interest  me.  But  I  should  say  you  people  were  at 
least  as  Victorian  as  Julie.  You're  quite  as  excited  about  the 
necessity  of  not  having  a  ceremony  as  old-fashioned  people 
are  about  having  one." 

Miss  Loeffler  insisted  angrily  that  this  was  not  true,  but 
presently  grew  calmer. 

"Anyway,  you're  right  about  one  thing,"  she  said,  finish- 
ing her  high-ball,  then  setting  the  glass  down  on  the  floor 
and  dropping  her  cigarette  end  into  it.  "The  whole  ques- 
tion's overstressed.  We've  got  other  bigger  things  to  think 
about.  Well',  I  must  go.  Just  dropped  in  for  a  minute.  See 
you  again  soon,  Julie.  You  going,  Mr.  Carroll  ?  Give  you  a 
lift  if  you  are.'* 

"Thanks,"  said  Stacey,  getting  up.  He  found  the  girl 
.physically  attractive,  and  he  was  glad  of  anything  that  would 
keep  his  thoughts  from  Marian.  He  followed  her  to  her 
handsome  run-about,  and  they  set  off  swiftly. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "I  don't  expect  to  have  a  car  much 
longer." 

"No?" 


n8  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"No.  When  we  have  Soviets  in  America  I  suppose  such 
cars  as  remain  will  all'  be  in  the  service  of  the  public.  Of 
course  they  may  put  me  to  driving  one,  but  more  likely  I'll 
have  to  cobble  shoes  or  something." 

"And  a  very  good  thing,  too,"  said  Stacey.  "Pleasant 
occupation,  nice  leathery  smell',  and  lots  of  time  to  reflect 
on  universal  subjects." 

She  frowned.  "You  don't  believe  in  me  at  all,  do  you?" 
she  demanded,  looking  at  him  petulantly.  "You  think 
we're  all—" 

But  in  her  excitement  she  had  pressed  her  foot  on  the 
accelerator  instead  of  the  brake,  so  that  they  dashed  past  a 
policeman  who  had  raised  his  hand  to  stop  them,  swerved 
madly  around  the  front  of  a  trolley-car  that  was  approach- 
ing on  the  cross  street,  sent  pedestrians  flying  to  left  and 
right,  and  returned  to  a  normal  speed  only  a  hundred  yards 
farther  along  the  avenue,  fortunately  not  crowded,  that  they 
were  following. 

Stacey  sighed.  "There's  not  a  pin  to  choose  between  you 
and  Julie,"  he  remarked  patiently.  "You  both  try  to  kill 
me  the  same  afternoon." 

Miss  Loeffler  laughed  girlishly.  "That  was  stupid  of  me," 
she  admitted.  "And  you  were  quite  the  calmest  thing  I've 
ever  seen.  But  truly,"  she  went  on  earnestly,  keeping  the 
car,  however,  at  a  discreet  twelve  miles  an  hour,  "it's  seri- 
ous. You'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  much  is  stirring 
deep,  deep  down  right  here  in  Vernon,  that  you'd  think  was 
a  positive  stronghold  of  capitalism.  Come  with  me  now, 
will'  you  ?"  she  said  eagerly,  "and  let  me  show  you  ?" 

"Show  me  what?" 

"People  who  are  really  thinking,  people  who  get  together 
and  see  things  straight — the  social  revolution,  Bolshevism." 

"Dear  me !"  said  Stacey.    "I  knew  Vernon  was  no  longer 


The  Lonely  Warrior  119 

provincial,  but  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  metropolitan  as 
all  that." 

"Oh,  you  can  laugh !"  she  returned  darkly,  "but  you'll  see. 
Of  course  you  understand  we  trust  your  discretion." 

"Of  course." 

She  turned  off  from  the  avenue  and  stopped  the  car  be- 
fore an  office  building.  "We  meet  here,"  she  announced, 
"in  an  ordinary  office-room,  because  it's  so  conspicuous  that 
it's  perfectly  safe."  And  they  went  up  in  the  elevator. 

The  large  room  which  they  presently  entered  had  been 
given  the  semblance  of  a  club.  There  were  numerous  easy 
chairs  around  the  floor,  chintz  curtains  at  the  windows,  and 
across  one  end  of  the  room  a  huge  oak  table  with  a  vase  of 
flowers  and  many  books  and  periodicals.  Fifteen  or  twenty 
peopl'e  were  in  the  room,  some  standing,  some  sprawling  in 
the  chairs,  two  or  three  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 
The  air  was  heavy  with  cigarette  smoke. 

"Comrade  Loeffler !"  several  voices  shouted,  as  Irene  and 
Stacey  entered. 

"And  with  a  new  comrade  in  tow !"  cried  some  one. 

"Well,  he  isn't  exactly  a  comrade,"  said  Irene.  "I  just 
brought  him  along  because  he's  so  aggravating  and  skepti- 
cal. But  he's  perfectly  safe.  Stacey  Carroll,  comrades." 
And  with  a  proprietary  air  she  drew  him  over  to  one  end  of 
the  room.  He  rather  liked  Miss  Loeffler.  There  was  some- 
thing so  girlish  beneath  her  pose. 

Stacey  looked  about  him  idly.  All  but  five  of  the  persons 
in  the  room  were  women.  He  knew  a  few  of  them  by  sight, 
and  the  faces  of  others  were  vaguely  familiar  to  him ;  but 
he  had  been  away  from  Vernon  for  so  long  and  so  utterly 
cut  off  from  it  mentally  that  it  was  hard  for  him  to  remem- 
ber old  acquaintances.  Doubtless  he  had  met  nearly  all 
these  people  formerly — he  didn't  know.  Anyway,  they  were 


120  The  Lonely  Warrior 

of  a  younger  generation  than  he — in  the  twenties,  most  of 
them.  He  observed  that  the  majority  of  the  women  wore 
their  hair  bobbed. 

"Why  so  much  bobbing  of  hair,  Miss  Loeffler?  Is  it  a 
symbol  of  freedom?" 

"I  suppose  you  might  call  it  that,"  she  replied,  sitting  on 
the  arm  of  his  leather  chair.  "If  you  were  unlucky  enough 
to  be  a  woman  you'd  appreciate  the  advantages  of  wearing 
your  hair  short." 

"It's  rather  becoming  to  you,"  he  observed.  "Can't  say 
I  think  it  is  to  all  of  them." 

"It's  stupid  and  old-fashioned  to  pay  compliments,"  she 
returned  coldly.  "They  don't  interest  me  at  all." 

"Sorry,"  said  Stacey,  "but  it's  difficult  not  to,  with  all  this 
air  of  freedom  about,  and  you  sitting  so  close  to  me." 

She  jumped  up  angrily,  but  then  after  a  moment  defiantly 
resumed  her  seat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

One  of  the  young  men,  Comrade  Leslie  Vane,  approached 
them.  He  wore  a  flowing  black  tie  beneath  a  very  low  soft 
collar.  Stacey  knew  him.  He  was  a  poet — published  things 
occasionally  in  the  "Pagan"  and  the  "Touchstone" — and  the 
son  of  John  Vane,  the  big  flour  man.  Peopl'e  in  Vernon 
were  very  nice  about  it,  but  naturally  at  heart  they  felt 
sorry  for  Mr.  Vane,  Senior,  who  was  extremely  well  liked, 
and  rejoiced  that  at  any  rate  his  other  son,  John,  Junior, 
was  normal.  Stacey  was  rather  inclined  to  share  Vernon's 
point  of  view  in  this. 

"Hello,  Stacey,"  said  Vane  languidly.  "Glad  to  see  a 
militarist  with  an  open  mind,  anyhow.  First  example  I've 
met  with." 

Stacey  reflected,  as  he  acknowledged  the  greeting,  that 
when  the  Middle-West  turned  esthetic  it  became  mournfully 
old-fashioned.  Positively  Leslie  Vane  was  going  back  all 
of  twenty-five  years  in  search  of  a  style. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  121 

"Sure!"  he  said.  "I'm  open  to  conviction,  but  what  do 
you  want  to  convince  me  of  ?" 

"Oh,"  drawled  Vane,  "the  papers  have  all  been  read; 
you.'re  late.  There's  only  just  general  talk  going  on  now, 
but  it  may  do  you  some  good  if  you'll'  listen." 

A  little  group  had  gathered  around  them,  and  the  smoky 
air  became  full  of  words,  among  which  "Soviets,"  "prole- 
tariat," and  "Bolshevism"  predominated. 

Stacey,  too  bored  to  listen,  fell  to  wondering  for  a  mo- 
ment about  real  Bolshevism.  He  shook  his  head.  No  use, 
that  either.  He  didn't  care  if  change  did  come.  In  a  way 
he  would  be  furiously  delighted  if  order  was  upset, — things 
were  so  silly.  But  he  didn't  believe  in  any  millennium  or 
even  in  improvement  through  change.  What  had  the  war 
accomplished  ? 

" — and  so  that,  most  of  all,"  some  woman  was  saying,  "is 
the  true  lesson  of  Holy  Russia.  What  do  you  think  of  it, 
Mr.  Carroll?  I  won't  call  you  Captain." 

He  started.  "Of  Bolshevism?  The — er — coming  social 
revolution.  Oh,  you'll  all  be  raped,  then  cut  in  little  pieces, 
and  Comrade  Leslie  will  have  his  throat  cut.  Not  because 
Bolshevism  is  so  especially  worse  than  anything  else,  but  be- 
cause that's  what  always  happens  when  any  kind  of  violence 
gets  loose.  And,  do  you  know?  I  don't  care  a  damn 
whether  it  comes  or  not !" 

He  meant  what  he  said,  as  much  as  he  meant  anything  at 
all  in  respect  to  these  futile  idiots,  but,  since  there  was  no 
passion  in  his  words  and  his  face  remained  expressionless, 
his  remarks  were  delightedly  deemed  a  skilful  evasion  of  the 
question  ("My  dear,  how  could  he  say  what  he  really 
thought — he  a  captain  and  a  Carroll?")  and  an  amusing 
pleasantry.  His  bold  use  of  the  word  "rape,"  too,  was 
much  appreciated. 

But  such  comments  were  made  after  his  departure.    For 


122  The  Lonely  Warrior 

neither  Miss  Loeffler's  physical  attractiveness  nor  conversa- 
tion with  the  fashionable  followers  of  Lenin  could  any 
longer  distract  his  mind  from  Marian.  She  and  Ames 
would  be  sitting  close  together  now  in  the  drawing-room  of 
a  Pullman  car.  .  .  . 

He  escaped  from  the  club  and  went  home. 

However,  he  felt  an  amused  curiosity  to  know  what  his 
sister's  attitude  had  been  toward  her  impetuous  visitor,  so 
he  called  Julie  up  on  the  telephone. 

"What  do  you  think  about  that  wild  creature  that  broke 
in  on  us  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"Irene  ?"  said  Julie's  calm  voice.  "Oh,  she's  just  a  goose, 
but  she's  really  quite  nice  and  sweet  and  young  at  heart." 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  thought,"  he  assented.  "Occurred 
to  me,  though,  that  I'd  better  call  you  up  and  let  you  know 
that  she  hadn't  eloped  with  me  or  done  me  any  real  harm — 
though  she  nearly  ran  us  into  a  street-car.  Quite  a 
good  time." 

"Now,  Stacey,  listen !"  said  Julie  anxiously.  "You  won't 
go  and  fall  in  love  with  Irene,  will  you?" 

He  laughed.  "I  won't  do  anything  without  asking  you 
about  it  first,  Jule.  I  lean  on  you,  you  know." 

And  the  odd  thing  about  it  was  that  in  a  way  he  did. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE  morning  some  three  weeks  later  Stacey  received  a  night 
letter  from  Omaha.  It  was  addressed  "Honorable  Stacey 
Carroll"  and  read: 

"My  husband  Jim  is  awfully  sick  with  flu  and  I  am  afraid 
he  is  going  to  die.  He  keeps  asking  for  you  though  he  is 
out  of  his  head  and  does  not  know  what  he  says.  Please, 
Captain  Carroll,  come  if  you  can  because  then  he  might  get 
well.  Gertrude  Burnham. 

Stacey  wasted  no  time.  He  sent  a  telegram  to  say  that 
he  was  starting  immediately,  telephoned  for  a  lower  berth 
on  the  evening  train,  and  pulled  a  suitcase  from  a  closet. 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  neat  methodical  packing  he  suddenly 
paused  and  gazed  abstractedly  away.  It  had  occurred  to 
him  that  perhaps  if  Burnham  could  see  him  as  he  had  been 
in  France  the  sick  man  might  be  more  likely  to  recognize 
him  and  might  even — who  could  tell  ? — draw  a  little  strength 
from  the  old  revived  relationship  of  command  and  protec- 
tiveness.  Stacey  took  out  the  things  he  had  already  packed, 
chose  a  larger  bag,  and  put  in  his  uniform  at  the  bottom. 

He  arrived  in  Omaha  early  the  next  morning,  drove  to  a 
hotel,  unpacked  his  bag,  put  on  his  uniform,  and  took  a  taxi 
to  Burnham's  address. 

The  taxi  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  dilapidated  wooden 
house  in  a  shabby  quarter  surprisingly  near  the  centre  of 
town.  Stacey  descended  and  paid  the  chauffeur. 

But  before  he  had  time  to  reach  the  door  of  the  house  it 
opened  and  a  woman  hurried  out  to  meet  him.  She  was 
thin,  haggard,  dishevelled,  though  not  slovenly,  with  a  worn 

123 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

face  and  worn  eyes  about  which  strayed  limp  locks  of  black 
hair,  but  there  were  faded  traces  of  fineness  in  her.  Stacey 
remembered  that  Burnham  had  always  spoken  of  his  wife 
with  pride.  She  had,  he  often  said,  had  a  high-school 
education. 

"Oh,  Captain  Carroll,"  she  cried,  "it's  awful  good  of  you 
to  come,  sir !  I  knew  I  oughtn't  to've  asked  you,  but  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do !" 

"Of  course  you  ought,"  Stacey  returned  briefly,  shaking 
her  hand. 

"And  you  wore  your  uniform,  too,"  she  added,  with  a 
pale  half-smile.  "That  was  just  right.  I  wouldn't  have 
thought  you'd  have  thought  of  that." 

They  entered  the  house,  in  which  the  Burnhams  occupied 
one-half  of  the  second  floor.  Three  small  children,  shabby 
and  not  very  clean,  with  frightened  faces,  were  waiting  for 
them  just  inside,  and  stared  at  Stacey. 

"I  keep  them  looking  better  than  this,  Captain  Carroll, 
when  everything's  all  right,"  Mrs.  Burnham  explained 
apologetically,  and  they  all  climbed  the  stairs  in  silence. 

As  they  went,  Stacey  reflected  swiftly  on  a  number  of 
things, — that  what  life  did  to  Burnham  was  very  like  what 
it  did  to  Phil,  and  that  a  lot  of  criminal  rubbish  was  being 
talked  about  the  prosperous  workingman.  Why,  thought 
Stacey,  even  his  father,  who  was  a  kindly  man,  declared 
bitterly  that  workmen  were  buying  silk  shirts  to-day  and 
denounced  them  as  profiteers!  Well,  suppose  a  man  did 
earn  six  dollars  a  day  for  manual  labor,  suppose  he  even 
earned  it  regularly  for  six  days  in  every  week  (which  he 
didn't),  how  much  was  that  a  year?  Let's  see.  Eighteen 
hundred  and  some  dollars,  on  which,  with  the  price  of  every- 
thing gone  wild,  he  was  supposed  to  raise  a  family  and  live  in 
luxury.  What  rot !  Stacey  himself,  who  lived  at  home,  had 
a  car  that  his  father  had  given  him,  and  cared  little  for 


The  Lonely  Warrior  125 

luxuries,  felt  pinched  with  two  hundred  dollars  a  month. 
Oh,  damn  money ! 

They  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  paused  before  a 
door  through  which  came  a  strange  murmuring  voice. 

"Jim  won't  know  you,  sir, — not  now,"  said  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham,  "but  if  you'd  be  willing  just  to  sit  there  a  while, 
maybe — " 

"Of  course,"  said  Stacey.    "You  have  a  good  doctor?" 

"Yes,  sir.  At  least,  I  guess  he's  good.  They  don't  any 
of  them  seem  much  help.  He'll'  be  here  at  ten  o'clock." 

They  went  in,  Stacey  and  Mrs.  Burnham;  the  children 
were  left  outside  the  door.  Burnham,  flushed  with  fever, 
lay  tossing  and  muttering  on  a  narrow  bed.  Stacey  looked 
down  at  him  and  lifted  his  hot  hand,  but  there  was  no  recog- 
nition in  the  man's  eyes. 

"I'll  sit  here,"  said  Stacey  after  a  moment,  drawing  up  a 
chair  beside  the  bed. 

The  woman  silently  took  another  chair,  and  they  remained 
so  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  neither  of  them  speaking,  she 
rising  at  regular  intervals  to  press  a  spoonful  of  medicine 
between  her  husband's  teeth,  until  the  doctor  arrived. 

He  was  brusque,  had  keen  eyes,  and  appeared  competent. 
Stacey  drew  him  aside  at  the  conclusion  of  the  visit. 

"Any  chance?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "fifty-fifty.  He's  as  likely  to  re- 
cover as  not.  Splendid  physique !  There's  nothing  much  I 
can  do  except  to  give  stimulants  in  case  of  sudden  collapse. 
We  don't  know  anything  about  flu  really,  you  know,  and  this 
pneumonia  that  follows  on  flu.  I've  seen  hundreds  die  of 
it — I  was  in  France,  too, — and  hundreds  get  well, — both 
•without  any  reason.  Served  under  you  ?" 

"My  first  sergeant.  Goodman, — no  better!  Do  your  best 
for  him." 

"It's  a  strong  bond,  isn't  it?" 


i26  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey  nodded.    "Oughtn't  he  to  have  a  nurse  ?" 

<4It  would  be  a  great  deal  better.  He'd  have  more  of  a 
chance." 

"Then  send  one  around,  will  you  please?  At  my  expense, 
of  course." 

"All  right,"  said  the  doctor,  shook  hands  with  Stacey, 
and  departed. 

The  conversation  had  taken  place  in  the  hallway  outside 
the  door.  When  Stacey  reentered  the  sick  room  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham  gazed  at  him  wistfully. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "Jim's  got  a  good  chance.  The 
doctor's  going  to  send  a  nurse." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  opened  her  mouth  as 
though  to  speak,  but  closed  it  again,  with  only  a  strangled : 
"Thanks,"  and  turned  her  head  away.  After  a  time  she 
got  up. 

"I'll  go  down  and  cook  some  dinner,"  she  said.  "You'll 
excuse  me,  sir,  if  it  isn't  much,  won't  you?  I  haven't  had 
time  to—" 

"No,"  he  broke  in,  "you're  too  tired  to  cook.  Please 
go  out  and  get  some  lunch  for  yourself  and  the  children  if 
you  know  of  some  delicatessen  place, — and  for  me,  too." 
And  he  drew  out  his  purse. 

But  at  this  her  face  colored.  "No  sir,"  she  said,  with  just 
a  hint  of  resentment,  "I  couldn't." 

He  thrust  a  five-dollar  bill  upon  her.  "Do  as  I  tell  you,"1 
he  said  imperiously.  "This  is  no  time  for  silly  pride.  Go 
on,  and  mind  you  get  good  things  and  plenty  of  them." 

She  cowered  beneath  his  sternness  and  went  meekly. 
And  Stacey  reflected  grimly  that  pride  was  a  decorative 
handsome  emotion  that  flourished  ornamentally,  a  highly 
esteemed  orchid,  in  luxury.  It  couldn't  grow  well  in 
poverty,  came  up  sickly  and  scrawny, — the  soil  was  too  weak. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  heard  her  climb  the  stairs  again  and 


The  Lonely  Warrior  127 

move  quietly  about  the  next  room.    Presently  she  returned 
to  the  bedroom. 

"Will  you  go  in  there  now,  sir?"  she  said.  "Everything's 
ready  for  you.  Here's  your  change — two  dollars  and  sixty- 
four  cents." 

"No,  no,  please!"  he  replied.    "Keep  it  for  to-morrow." 

He  wanted  to  insist  on  her  eating  first,  but  thought  best 
not  to  try,  so  he  went,  without  comment,  through  the  door 
she  indicated  into  another  bedroom — the  only  other,  he  sup- 
posed,— that  obviously  also  served  as  dining-room  and  par- 
lor. Dishes  were  disposed  neatly  on  a  table,  with  sand- 
wiches, Bologna  sausage,  eggs,  coffee,  and  doughnuts. 

He  sat  down,  then  looked  up,  listening,  with  a  smile,  and 
suddenly  rose,  crossed  the  room,  and  flung  open  another 
door.  The  kitchenette.  And  there,  as  he  had  thought,  were 
the  three  children,  sitting,  very  terrified  at  his  discovery  of 
them,  close  together  on  a  small  bench. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  "you're  out  here,  are  you?  Well,  come 
on !  Let's  eat  together.  Only  I  think  we'd  better  do  it  in 
this  room  or  your  mother  will  hear  us." 

"She  said  we  was  to  wait  and  not  make  a  noise,"  ob- 
served the  oldest  girl  in  a  small  voice. 

"Well,  we  won't  wait,"  Stacey  remarked.  "There  are 
doughnuts,  you  know.  You  come  on  in  with  me,"  he  said 
bo  the  girl  who  had  spoken,  "on  your  tip-toes,  and  help  fix 
the  plates." 

She  obeyed  timidly. 

"First  we'll  fix  one  for  your  mother,"  he  whispered,  and 
she  nodded,  her  lips  pressed  together. 

He  and  the  three  children  ate  gravely  in  the  kitchenette. 
Then  Stacey  rose.  "I'll  go  back  to  your  father  now,"  he 
said,  "and  send  your  mother  out." 

"Your  plate  is  ready  for  you,  Mrs.  Burnham.  And  the 
children  have  eaten,"  he  announced  in  a  triumphant  whisper. 


128  The  Lonely  Warrior 

She  gasped,  then  suddenly  her  mouth  curved  prettily  into 
a  smile — the  first  he  had  seen  her  give.  Stacey  sat  down 
again  by  the  bedside. 

Burnham  seemed  a  little  calmer  now,  and  his  incoherent 
muttering  had  ceased,  but  he  looked  very  exhausted,  and 
Stacey  was  relieved  when  about  one  o'clock  the  nurse 
arrived. 

The  three  of  them  sat  there  silently  all  the  hot  afternoon, 
with  only  short  intervals  of  release  when  Stacey  stretched 
his  legs  in  the  hall  or  Mrs.  Burnham  went  out  to  keep  an 
eye  on  the  children.  There  was  no  change  in  the  sick  man. 
The  nurse  said  that  the  crisis  would  probably  be  reached 
next  day. 

At  six  o'clock  Stacey  left  the  house,  asking  the  nurse  to 
telephone  him  in  case  of  a  serious  change.  He  walked  back 
to  his  hotel. 

He  was  abstracted,  an  isolated  personality,  growing  more 
isolated  with  every  month  that  passed  in  his  life;  so  that 
now  he  saw  little  of  his  surroundings  and  glanced  but  care- 
lessly both  at  the  depressing  quarter  from  which  he  had  set 
out  and  at  the  prosperous  business  section  he  presently  en- 
tered. He  merely  thought,  idly,  that  the  city  seemed  a  char- 
acterless place,  1'ike  all  other  middle-western  cities.  And  the 
imposing  court-house,  of  white  marble,  that  he  passed 
shortly  before  reaching  his  hotel,  did  not  impress  him.  It 
did,  indeed,  occur  to  him  once  that  there  was  a  certain  ten- 
sity in  the  air,  like  that  which  characterizes  a  city  in  boom 
times,  but  the  observation,  purely  involuntary,  did  not  par- 
ticularly interest  him.  It  interested  him  not  at  all  when 
later,  glancing  through  the  front  page  of  a  local  paper,  he 
learned  the  cause  of  the  tensity — trouble  with  the  negroes, 
"Another  Dastardly  Assault !" 

Early  the  next  morning  he  was  back  at  Burnham's  house. 
The  man  seemed  worse,  Stacey  thought  with  a  touch  of 


The  Lonely  Warrior  129 

real  sadness, — more  feverish,  more  restless.  There  was  no 
rapacity  for  smiling,  even  faintly,  left  in  Mrs.  Burnham. 
The  nurse,  cool,  professional,  woul'd  express  no  opinion; 
and  the  doctor,  too,  when  he  came,  was  noncommittal. 

"Before  to-night  there  ought  to  be  a  decision  one  way  or 
the  other,"  he  said  to  Stacey.  "I'll  come  again  at  four.  Call 
me  up  earlier  if  necessary." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait,  and  Stacey  again  set- 
tled himself  in  a  chair  near  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

The  crisis  came  early  in  the  afternoon.  Burnham  tossed 
and  kicked  furiously,  and  his  incoherent  muttering  grew 
louder.  Suddenly  he  raised  himself  on  the  palms  of  his 
hands  into  a  half-sitting  posture  and  stared  directly  at 
Stacey — or  not  really  at  him,  through  him. 

"By  God,  Captain !"  he  cried  wildly,  in  a  high  unnatural 
voice,  "you've  got  nerve!  Might've  been  shot  .  .  .  shot 
.  .  .  shot !  What  hell  you  care  ?  You  wouldn't  do  it !"  He 
panted.  "Not  you,  Captain!  Said  I'd  follow  you  to  hell. 
Nerve  .  .  .  nerve  .  .  .  nerve.  .  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  away 
to  silence,  while  the  nurse  leaned  over  him,  pressing  his 
shoulders  down  firmly. 

Stacey  had  started  at  the  words.  They  were  spoken,  he 
knew,  in  delirium,  not  to  him  but  to  a  shadow  vanished 
eleven  months  since,  but  Stacey  understood  them.  Burnham 
knew,  then,  did  he,  about  that  Argonne  attack?  Good! 
Probably  no  other  kind  of  approbation  from  any  source 
would  have  touched  Stacey,  even  faintly.  This,  for  an  in- 
stant, made  him  thrill  with  a  fierce  proud  happiness.  The 
next  moment  there  was  nothing  left  in  his  consciousness  but 
concern  for  his  friend. 

But  Burnham  lay  quiet  now,  his  color  less  vivid,  his  breath 
coming  and  going  easily,  and  the  nurse  looked  at  Stacey 
and  Mrs.  Burnham  with  a  smile. 

"I  think  he'll  get  along  all  right  now,"  she  said  pleasantly* 


130  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey  wiped  his  forehead,  and  Mrs.  Burnham,  collapsing 
into  a  chair,  laid  her  head  on  a  table  and  wept  softly. 

"Fine!"  said  the  doctor,  when  he  came.  "He'll  get  well 
now.  Just  a  question  of  time." 

The  next  morning,  when  Mrs.  Burnham  opened  the  door 
to  Stacey,  he  observed  that  she  was  wearing  a  clean  dress 
and  had  done  her  hair  quite  prettily. 

"Then  Jim's  a  lot  better,  isn't  he?"  he  asked,  with  a 
smile. 

She  flushed.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "He  slept  right  through 
the  night.  Only  woke  up  once  for  just  a  minute,  then  went 
back  to  sleep  again.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  Captain  Carroll!" 
Her  eyes  rilled.  "And  so  grateful  to  you,  sir !" 

"Oh,  please!"  said  Stacey,  embarrassed. 

Late  in  the  morning  Burnham  opened  his  eyes  slowly  and 
let  them  wander  curiously  about  the  room.  They  rested  on 
Stacey,  and  a  puzzled  expression  came  into  them,  then,  after 
a  moment,  recognition,  and  the  man  tried  to  raise  his  hand 
in  salute. 

"Where's  the  devil,  sir  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  thin  voice.  Then 
he  smiled.  "Funny!"  he  said.  "I  thought  I  was  in  hell." 
And  he  began  to  laugh  weakly. 

"Shut  up,  Burnham!"  Stacey  commanded  sternly,  "and 
lie  still!" 

"Oh,  all  right,  Captain,  all  right !"  Burnham  returned,  still 
laughing,  and  went  to  sleep  again  at  once. 

Stacey  was  rather  tired  in  the  evenings  now  from  sitting 
so  monotonously  still  all  day.  He  resented  the  excitement 
that  he  felt  throbbing  in  the  streets  and  the  nervous  buzz 
of  the  groups  through  which  he  had  to  elbow  his  way  in 
the  hotel  lobby.  His  one  recreation  consisted  in  changing 
to  civilian  clothes  for  dinner ;  for  he  always  wore  his  uni- 
form when  he  went  to  the  Burnhams'.  It  happened  that 
the  regiment  in  which  he  had  commanded  a  battalion  had 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

been  recruited  from  this  part  of  the  country,  so  that  there 
were  perhaps  twenty-five  of  his  men  living  right  here  in 
Omaha,  among  them  a  first  lieutenant  whom  he  had  sin- 
cerely liked.  And,  ignorant  though  he  was  and  knew  him- 
self to  be  of  these  men's  real  personalities,  he  was  bound  to 
each  of  them — worst  as  well  as  best — by  a  closer  bond  than 
that  which  held  him  to  Philip  Blair  or  to  Marian  or  to  Mrs. 
Latimer.  He  would  have  given  lavishly  of  his  money  or  his 
time — nonsense!  of  something  real!  his  freedom  or  his 
strength! — to  any  of  these  men  who  needed  it;  and  not  in 
the  least  from  a  sense  of  duty, — inevitably,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Yet  he  had  no  companionable  desire  to  see  them. 
He  made  no  attempt  to  look  them  up.  He  spent  his  eve- 
nings in  bed,  reading  "War  and  Peace,"  which  in  former 
days  he  had  not  cared  for  but  now  found  singularly  satisfy- 
ing— more  satisfying  than  any  book  by  his  old  idol, 
Dostoieffsky. 

Burnham's  recovery  was  extraordinary.  On  the  third  day 
after  the  crisis  the  doctor  refused  jovially  to  waste  more 
time  in  visiting  him — the  nurse  had  been  dismissed  the  day 
before — and  told  him  to  eat,  talk  and  do  as  he  pleased,  short 
of  getting  up. 

"I  think,"  observed  Stacey  that  afternoon,  "that  I'll  pull 
out  to-night  on  the  midnight.  You're  as  fit  as  ever, 
Burnham." 

He  was,  indeed,  restless  and  anxious  to  go.  Here,  sitting 
near  Burnham,  chatting  casually  of  trivial'  things,  he  was 
strangely  at  peace ;  but  an  increasing  turmoil  that  he  felt  in 
the  city  each  evening  exasperated  him. 

The  man  looked  at  him  wistfully,  then  across  at  his  wife. 
"Gerty,"  he  said,  "you  go  out  with  the  kids  for  a  little 
while,  will'  you  ?  I  got  to  talk  to  the  Captain." 

She  obeyed,  but  her  face  had  flushed  and  her  eyes  were 
resentful. 


132  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Now  you've  done  it !"  said  Stacey  cheerfully.  "Fat  lot 
of  popularity  I'll  have  with  Gertrude  from  now  on !" 

Burnham  laughed.  "Funny  thing,  ain't  it,  Captain?"  he 
observed.  "They  can't  seem  to  get  onto  it  at  all,  women 
can't.  They  go  and  get  jealous,  like  Gerty  now." 

"Can't  get  onto  what?" 

"Why,  this — this  here  what-do-you-call-it." 

"Relationship?" 

"Uh-huh,  I  guess  that's  the  word.  It  ain't  got  a  thing  to 
do  with  them."  He  paused.  "Maybe  that's  why  they  don't 
like  it,"  he  concluded. 

"Philosopher!"  said  Stacey.  "Analyzing  the  female 
heart.  You'll  be  writing  for  the  magazines  next." 

"Sure!"  Burnham  grinned,  then  frowned.  "All  the 
same,  I  don't  get  onto  it  very  well  myself,"  he  continued. 
"Now  you'd  think  that  I  ought  to  be  feeling  all  upset  with 
gratitude  to  you,  the  way  Gerty  is,  and  worried  about  you 
wasting  so  much  of  your  time  and  money.  Well,  I  don't 
feel  that  way  at  all.  Damned  if  I  do !  I  just  feel  friendly 
and  pleasant  and — natural-like.  And  of  course  some  day 
I'm  going  to  pay  you  back  the  money  you  spent  on  the  nurse 
*n*  doctor,  but  it  don't  seem  important,  somehow,  like  it 
does  to  Gerty.  If  it  was  something  you  cared  about,  Cap- 
tain, I'd  get  up  now,  the  way  I  am,  and  work  all  day  to  get 
it  for  you,  but  Christ !  you  don't  care  a  damn  for  money !" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Burnham!"  said  Stacey,  laughing.    "How 
you  do  run  on !"    Nevertheless,  the  man's  words  were  pleas- 
ant to  him,  and  reenf orced  his  own  strangely  peaceful  mood. 
"Seems  sort  of  noisy  out-doors  to-day,"  Burnham  re- 
marked suddenly.    "What's  the  row,  I  wonder?" 

And,  indeed,  through  the  window  a  dull  and  sullen  mur- 
mur, that  was  like  a  deep  note  held  steadily  in  an  organ,  did 
enter  and  penetrate  the  room. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  133 

"Oh,"  replied  Stacey  quickly,  "I  don't  know !  It's  a  noisy 
city." 

Burnham  lay  silent  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  turned  his 
eyes  slowly  to  Stacey.  And  in  them  and  in  his  voice  when 
he  spoke  again  was  apparent  a  timidity  which  his  huge  bulk 
and  rough  unshaven  face  made  somehow  touching. 

"Captain,"  he  said  hesitantly,  "there  was  something  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you,  only  I  don't  know  if  I've  got  the  nerve. 
We  boys  was  always  kind  of  scared  of  you,  you  know, — oh, 
not  because  you  was  a  captain ! — fat  lot  of  respect  we  had 
for  captains  as  captains! — but  just  because — oh,  I  dunno! 
And  it's  kind  of  hard  to  say  anything  to  you  that's  kind  of 
personal,  as  you  might  say.  All  the  same,  I'll  take  a  chance." 
He  rushed  on  with  his  words  to  get  it  over.  "What  I  want 
to  say  is  that  some  of  us  know  all  about  that  attack  that— 
didn't  come  off."  He  paused  apprehensively,  but  with  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

However,  Stacey  was  as  friendly  as  before.  "Yes,"  he 
said  quietly,  "I  know  you  do.  You  let  that  out  Wednesday 
in  a  lot  of  wild  talk  you  were  spouting." 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  Burnham  ex- 
claimed. "And  me  who  wouldn't  have  told  even  Gerty! 
Did  any  one — " 

"No,  no,  it's  all  right!  No  one  else  understood.  And 
I'm  glad  you  know." 

"  'N'  that's  why  I  said  what  I  did  about  going  with  you 
to  hell  or  anywhere  else.  I  ain't  the  only  one,  Captain. 
There's  Morgan  and  Jones  and  Petitvalle  and  Isaacs  and  all 
the  rest  of  C  Company  that  knows,  who'd  fight  to  go  along, 
too.  Oh,  it  woul'd  be  a  nice  little  family  party !"  And  Burn- 
ham  laughed  gaily. 

Well,  Stacey  had  said  to  Phil  months  ago  that  this  was  the 
one  exploit  of  which  he  was  proud,  but  he  had  said  so 


134  The  Lonely  Warrior 

haughtily,  with  his  heart  full  of  bitterness.  Just  now  his 
heart  was  calm,  as  though  cleansed.  He  was  almost  happy. 
Yet  he  could  hardly  have  accounted  for  his  state  of  mind, 
even  had  he  cared  to  try.  It  was  not,  certainly,  that  his 
vanity  was  flattered.  Perhaps  it  was,  in  part,  that  when 
Stacey  had  related  the  episode  to  Philip  Blair  his  defiance 
of  the  machine  was  first  in  his  thoughts,  while  now  the 
stress  was  on  the  human  results  of  that  defiance.  Perhaps 
Burnham's  simple  assertion  of  loyalty  released  Stacey  from 
his  obsessing  perception  of  greed,  greed  everywhere. 

But  the  noise  outside  had  increased.  Rolling  waves  of 
sound  entered. 

"What  in  hell  is  going  on?"  Burnham  exclaimed.  "Tell 
me,  Captain !  You  know  all  right." 

"Well,"  said  Stacey  doubtfully,  but  thinking  it  on  the 
whole  better  not  to  have  the  invalid  aggravated  by  unsatis- 
fied curiosity,  "there's  been  a  lot  of  race  trouble  here  lately. 
Just  now  it  seems  to  be  mostly  about  some  negro — name  of 
Brown — said  to  have  assaulted  a  woman.  He's  shut  up  in 
the  court-house  jail,  I  believe.  Sounds  as  though  some  sort 
of  demonstration — " 

But  at  this  moment  a  scattered  crackling  sound  broke  out 
in  the  distance.  Burnham  sat  up  quickly,  and  Stacey  crossed 
to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"Some  sort  of  demonstration?"  said  Burnham.  "Some 
sort  of  riot!  That's  shooting." 

Stacey  nodded,  pulled  down  the  window  sash,  and  came 
back  to  his  chair. 

Mrs.  Burnham  entered  the  room  hurriedly,  but,  though 
frightened,  she  had  not  forgotten  her  grievance.  "I  suppose 
I  can  come  in  now,"  she  said,  "since  there's  a  war  or  some- 
thing going  on." 

"Sure!"  returned  her  husband,  laughing.  "It's  nothing, 
Gerty." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  135 

Darkness  fell  while  they  sat  there  together,  Mrs.  Burn- 
ham  soon  ashamed  of  her  pettishness  and  trying  to  think 
up  little  things  she  could  do  for  Stacey,  Burnham  stretching 
his  arms  and  legs  to  feel  their  returning  strength,  all1  three 
chatting  about  the  most  casual  matters.  A  lamp  sputtered 
alight  in  the  street  and  shone  in  upon  them. 

Oddly,  Stacey  thought  of  that  afternoon  with  Phil  and 
Catherine  in  New  York  five  years  ago.  He  had  the  same 
sense  of  calm  now  as  then. 

But  this  sea  of  sound  that  roared  dully  in  the  distance, 
at  times  swelling  for  a  moment  so  that  Mrs.  Burnham 
turned  her  eyes  apprehensively  to  Stacey, — it  had  been 
absent  then.  Had  it,  though?  What  else  was  the  war? 
Stacey  thought  fancifully. 

"Well,  I've  really  got  to  go  now,"  he  remarked,  and  rose. 

Mrs.  Burnham  tried  stammeringly  to  express  her  grati- 
tude, but  Burnham  only  gripped  Stacey's  hand  and  smiled. 

"May  I  say  good-bye  to  the  children  ?"  asked  Stacey,  and 
Mrs.  Burnham,  too,  smil'ed  at  this  and  went  in  search 
of  them. 

"Now  look  here,  Captain !"  said  her  husband  anxiously  in 
a  low  voice  as  soon  as  she  had  left  the  room,  "you  won't  get 
mixed  up  in  that  mess  in  the  streets,  will  you  ?" 

Stacey  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,  I'll  be  all  right,"  he  re- 
plied reassuringly. 

The  noise  outside  continued. 


CHAPTER  X 

STAGEY  glanced  up  and  down  the  street,  but  it  lay  quiet  and 
empty  in  the  brightness  of  its  regularly  spaced  arc-lights. 
The  noise  came  from  the  direction  of  the  centre  of  town, 
and  as  this  was  also  the  direction  of  his  hotel  he  sighed  and 
set  off  toward  it.  He  sighed  because  he  felt  himself  step- 
ping back  into  the  old  shadow  from  the  rare  brightness  of 
his  recent  mood.  It  occurred  to  him  that  life  was  like  that, 
some  one  had  said, — a  handful  of  peaceful  islands  scattered 
stingily  over  a  tumultuous  sea.  Which  figure  reveals  how 
little  he  knew  himself — what  he  was  and  what  he  wanted. 
For  at  heart  he  did  not  crave  repose. 

He  turned  a  corner,  the  rumble  of  sound  became  a  roar, 
and  he  was  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  Some  distance  down 
the  street  into  which  he  had  emerged,  on  the  left  at  its  inter- 
section by  another  wider  thoroughfare,  he  could  make  out  a 
corner  of  the  white  marble  court-house  that  had  left  him 
unimpressed.  And  one  side  of  this  building — the  east,  it 
must  be — stretched  along  flush  with  the  street  that  Stacey 
'followed.  But  all  about  and  obscuring  such  part  of  the 
structure  as  lay  within  his  vision  there  was  now  a  black 
howling  throng,  while,  over  all,  smoke  hung.  And  even 
here,  where  Stacey  stood,  the  crowd  was  dense.  Traffic 
had  ceased.  Motor  cars  stood  motionless.  Men  had  scram- 
bled up  the  sides  of  them  and  clung  there,  all  staring  in  one 
direction ;  and  from  the  windows  of  the  houses  flanking  the 
street  more  people  leaned  and  gazed. 

Here  the  crowd  was  not  yet  a  mass — groups  only ;  but  as 
Stacey  went  forward  toward  the  court-house,  which  was 
perhaps  an  eighth  of  a  mile  away,  it  thickened,  so  that  to 

136 


The  Lonely  Warrior  137 

traverse  it  became  increasingly  difficult.  And  as  it  thickened 
its  temper  grew  manifestly  wanner.  A  confusion  of  cries 
agitated  it.  Sometimes  they  burst  into  a  refrain — "Nigger ! 
Nigger!  We  want  that  nigger!"  Arms  were  thrown  up, 
gesticulating  wildly.  And  there  were  little  centres  of  local 
interest — a  man  suddenly  hauling  himself  up  to  the  shoul- 
ders of  another  for  a  view  and  thrown  down  again  fiercely, 
snarling  contests  over  invaded  personal  rights,  animal-like 
squeals  of  women  at  the  crushing  pressure  upon  them.  The 
sweating  faces  had  a  bestial  look  beneath  the  arc-lights,  and 
a  sourish  human  odor  tainted  the  warm  air.  Noise !  Noise ! 
Stacey  was  not  feeling  anger — only  a  deep  disgust,  dis- 
gust of  crowds,  sick  disgust  of  all  humanity.  His  emotion 
was  the  more  acute  for  its  contrast  with  the  mood  he  had  felt 
in  Burnham's  house.  He  was  like  a  man  who  has  made  a 
longer  jump  by  taking  a  running  start.  So  this  was  the  kind 
of  thing  on  which  perpetual  peace  and  leagues  of  nations 
were  to  be  founded,  was  it?  he  thought  coldly.  He 
would  have  gone  back  out  of  its  contamination,  having 
certainly  no  desire  to  witness  the  spectacle  it  clamored 
for,  save  that  he  had  some  desperate  idea  of  perhaps 
being  able  to  assist  the  few  who  must  somewhere  be 
standing  off  the  multitude.  So  he  fought  his  way  forward, 
inch  by  inch,  helped  perhaps  a  very  little  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  in  uniform,  using  his  shoulders  and  elbows 
mercilessly  in  cold  contempt  of  his  victims,  shrieked  at, 
cursed  at,  struck  at  even,  but  making  progress,  until  at 
last  he  came,  panting,  to  the  corner  of  his  own  street  and 
that  other  wider  avenue.  He  could  get  no  farther,  either 
ahead  or  to  the  left.  The  crowd  was  a  solid  wall1.  And  to 
return  was  equally  impossible.  He  could  only  stay  where  he 
was  and  hope  that  something  might  happen,  some  movement 
in  the  mob,  that  would  make  it  possible  for  him  to  push 
through  suddenly  and  reach  the  court-house. 


138  The  Lonely  Warrior 

He  stood  on  tip-toe  and  looked  about  him.  He  was  al- 
most at  the  corner,  close  to  the  right  hand  edge  of  the  street, 
and  he  perceived  that  here  the  latter  was  flanked  by  the 
side  wall  of  what  he  took  to  be  a  theatre.  In  the  wall,  some 
two  or  three  feet  above  the  ground,  were  embrasures,  van- 
tage points  held  with  difficulty  by  tightly  wedged  groups. 
As  Stacey  looked,  a  sudden  backward  surge  of  the  crowd 
swept  down  and  away  two  such  members  of  one  group,  and 
Stacey,  diving  desperately  in,  himself  struggled  up  to  the 
place  and  held  it  against  all  contestants. 

All  events  were  submerged  beneath  a  roar  of  voices,  a 
sea  of  noise  that  broke  in  echoing  waves  against  the  sides 
of  the  buildings.  It  was  an  emotion  in  itself,  irrespective  of 
its  cause.  It  hypnotized  the  crowd,  produced  a  singular  wild 
stare  in  men's  eyes,  made  their  movements  jerky,  their  own 
involuntary  addition  to  the  noise  raucous.  It  did  not  hypno- 
tize Stacey,  because  he  was  al'oof,  remote,  and  also  because 
he  was  too  familiar  with  noise.  Yet,  he,  too,  had  undergone 
its  terrible  spell — early  in  the  war,  before  he  had  grown 
hard  enough  to  bear  the  unbearable.  He  knew  bitterly  well 
what  Siegfried  Sassoon  meant  by :  "I'm  going  stark,  staring 
mad  because  of  the  guns." 

Stacey  threw  one  last  contemptuous  glance  at  the  mob 
beneath  him,  then  gazed  off  over  their  heads  at  the  court- 
house. 

The  first  thing  he  noted  was  that  it  was  on  fire,  smoke 
creeping  dully  from  its  ground-floor  windows;  the  second, 
that  fighting  was  going  on  inside  it,  since  the  south  door, 
that  opening  on  the  wide  cross-street,  was  shattered,  while 
through  it  rushed  in  or  were  driven  back  mad  struggling 
clusters  of  men. 

"Good  for  the  police!"  thought  Stacey.  "Oh,  by  God! 
I  wish  I  were  there !" 

Two  firemen  appeared  at  a  third-floor  window,  and  from 


The  Lonely  Warrior  139 

the  nozzle  of  the  hose  they  held  a  stream  shot  down  upon 
the  crowd.  There  was  a  wild  surging  movement  that  swept 
to  the  crowd  even  here,  pushing  it  back  upon  itself  tumultu- 
ously.  Snarls  of  anger  rose.  There  were  struggles,  shrieks, 
fists  striking  out,  mad  efforts  of  individuals  to  keep  from 
being  crushed.  And  up  ahead  on  the  left  the  lighted  air  was 
shadowed  by  the  bricks  and  stones  hurled  through  it  against 
the  court-house.  The  court-house  windows  shattered  in 
fragments.  Stacey  could  not  hear  them  crash — the  noise  of 
voices  submerged  all  other  sounds,  as  it  was  submerging 
thought — but  he  could  see  the  jagged  black  gaps  appear  and 
the  shining  rain  of  glass.  He  held  his  place  in  the  embrasure 
with  difficulty,  clinging  to  an  iron  ring  in  the  wall  and  to 
his  nearest  companion. 

Then  suddenly  a  vast  exultant  roar  shook  the  crowd. 
The  stream  of  water  had  ceased. 

"Cut  it !    We've  cut  their  damned  hose !    Cut !    Cut  it !" 

The  crowd  was  wilder  now,  frenzied.  Stacey,  looking 
down,  saw  faces  convulsed,  venomous,  filthy  with  ugliness. 
He  felt  a  shudder  of  loathing  and  recollected  with  passion- 
ate assent  what  Anatol'e  France  had  called  life — "a  sickness, 
a  leprosy,  a  mold  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"Nigger !    Give  us  that  nigger !" 

Time  passed.  Stacey,  knowing  mobs,  thought  that  per- 
haps eventually  this  one  would  wear  itself  out  on  its  own 
emotion,  begin  to  break  up  into  individuals  sick  with  fatigue, 
and  little  by  little  disperse.  But  he  soon  perceived  that  it 
had  too  varied  a  spectacle  to  witness,  an  immense  vicious 
vaudeville,  something  new  every  few  minutes, — a  ladder 
thrown  against  the  court-house  wall,  half  scaled  by  eight 
or  ten  youths,  pushed  slowly  back  by  the  defenders,  and 
crashing  over  at  last  to  earth,  the  sealers  leaping  off  wildly 
as  it  fell';  a  rush  through  the  door;  fighting;  shots. 

Even  so,  the  mob  had  sullen  moments  when  its  roar  sank 


140  The  Lonely  Warrior 

to  a  rumble,  but  again  it  occurred  to  Stacey  that  it  was  being 
lashed  up  afresh  by  leaders.  There  was  a  young  man  on  a 
white  horse  there  in  the  street  before  the  besieged  building. 
Twice  he  wheeled  his  horse  about  and  harangued  the  crowd. 
His  voice  was  inaudible  here,  but  the  emotion  he  created 
immediately  around  him  swept  on,  like  something  tangible, 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  words,  and  his  gestures  stirred  men 
to  renewed  frenzy.  Al'so  it  struck  Stacey  that,  while  here 
at  the  corner  the  crowd  was  jammed  beyond  hope  of  pene- 
tration, there  on  the  left,  just  before  the  south  side  of  the 
court-house,  where  the  fight  was  sharpest,  was  room  to 
move.  There  were  rushes,  assaults.  The  fighting  part  of 
the  mob  was  relatively  small.  Oh,  they  all  wanted  the 
negro,  damn  them!  They  wanted  blood  and  torture.  But 
as  spectators.  If  only  he  could  get  there! 

And  at  this  thought,  that  there  were  deliberate  leaders, 
anger  began  to  rise  in  Stacey,  who  till  now  had  felt  only 
disgust  and  scorn. 

But  a  sudden  whirling  streamer  of  red  light  curved  into  a 
broken  window  of  the  court-house  and  a  dull  explosion 
made  the  air  throb.  A  red  glare  flamed  up  inside  the  build- 
ing, and  a  great  "Ah-h-h !"  came  from  the  crowd. 

"By  God !  look  at  it !"— "A  bomb !  Oh,  Christ!  a  bomb"!" 
^-"Oh,  look  at  her  burn !" — "Nigger,  we'll  get  him  now !" — 
"Oh,  ranger!" — "A-e-e-e!"  Shouts,  leaps,  struggles, 
madness. 

The  crowd  could  afford  to  wait  now,  thought  Stacey, 
looking  on  grimly,  as  black  smoke  poured  from  windows 
and  rose  in  clouds,  begriming  the  marble  walls. 

It  was  late.  How  long  had  he  been  here  in  this  filth? 
Two  hours?  Three?  Stacey  looked  at  his  watch.  Ten- 
thirty.  He  gazed  back  wearily  down  the  street,  in  a  sullen 
despair  beneath  which  anger  smoldered.  An  outrage  to 
be  born  into  such  a  world !  And  he  coul'd  not  take  refuge  in 


The  Lonely  Warrior  141 

himself.  He  hated  himself  as  he  hated  this  mob.  Oh,  he 
did  not,  of  course,  feel  with  them  now !  What  was  a  black 
man's  life  or  a  white  man's — any  man's — his  own — Philip 
Blair's,  even — to  deserve  such  clamor?  He  was  hard, 
crusted  over  with  bitterness.  But  there  had  been  times  in 
France  when  .  .  . 

A  sudden  frenzied  shriek  from  the  mob  made  him  start 
and  turn  his  eyes  back  to  the  court-house.  On  the  steps 
at  its  entrance,  that  opening  on  the  street  which  Stacey  had 
followed,  alone  in  the  1'urid  smoky  light  stood  a  man — rather 
stout,  not  tall,  but  impressive  in  his  solitude. 

"The  mayor!"— "It's  the  mayor!"— "Smith!"— "Mayor!" 
came  in  a  shattered  volley  of  cries  from  all  about. 

Then  in  one  fierce  burst  of  sound :  "Nigger !  Give  us  that 
nigger !  Nigger !  Nigger !" 

And,  after  this,  dwindling  sound,  save  from  the  storm 
centre  at  the  south  entrance  where  the  news  could  not  be 
known;  finally  a  semblance  of  silence.  Stacey  could  not 
hear  the  man's  voice  when  he  spoke — "I  can't  do  that, 
boys!"  he  learned  later  the  words  had  been — but  he  could 
see  him  shake  his  head  and  could  see  the  firm  negative  ges- 
ture he  made  with  both  extended  hands. 

An  immense  insane  howl  of  anger  burst  out.  A  crowd 
surged  up  the  east  steps,  and  the  solitary  figure  disappeared 
among  them,  dragged  down  in  a  chaotic  black  mass  of 
assailants. 

A  thrill  of  exultation  and  anger  ran  through  Stacey.  By 
God !  he'd  stood  them  off !  One  living  man  with  a  soul  of 
his  own  against  the  mob !  And  he  was  to  be  dragged  down 
like  that?  killed  for  it?  Beside  himself,  Stacey  leaped  to 
the  ground  and  fought  madly  to  break  through  to  the  one 
man  on  the  scene.  Impossible !  Far  from  pushing  f orward, 
he  was  caught  in  a  sudden  retreating  surge  of  the  throng 
and  swept  back,  back,  raging,  down  the  street,  to  the  edge 


142  The  Lonely  Warrior 

of  a  narrow  roofed-in  alley  that  led  out  of  it  behind  the 
theatre  building.  Here  he  held  his  own  once  more. 

Mad  cries  of  wrath  against  the  mayor  came  from  all 
about  him.  "Nigger  lover!" — "Get  the  nigger  lover!" — * 
"Lynch  him !" 

Close  to  Stacey  a  heavy  red-faced  man  was  shaking  his 
clenched  fists  high  in  the  air.  "Oh,  lynch  him !  The  God- 
damn son  of  a  bitch!  Oh,  nigger  lover!  Oh,  kill  him! 
Lynch  him !"  he  shrieked,  his  voice  hoarse,  his  face  purple, 
convulsed,  incredibly  bestial1. 

And  suddenly  a  white  ungovernable  rage  flared  up  in 
Stacey.  There  was  nothing  left  of  his  personality  but  rage. 
He  seized  the  man  about  the  waist,  and,  helped  by  a  new 
surge  of  the  crowd,  half  flung  him,  half  was  swept  with 
him,  back  into  the  narrow  dark  entrance  of  the  alley  and 
down  it. 

The  momentum  gathered  from  the  crowd  hurled  both  for- 
ward, staggering,  and  separated  them.  But  Stacey  was  upon 
his  man  again  instantly.  They  were  perhaps  thirty  yards 
down  the  alley  in  a  semi-obscurity. 

"Here!    You!    What  d'you—  ?" 

Stacey  merely  dived,  in  hot  silence,  for  the  man's  throat, 
and  fastened  his  hands  upon  it  tensely. 

The  victim  struck  out  wildly,  gasped,  kicked,  but  Stacey 
bent  him  back  and  leaned  over,  sinking  his  thumbs  deeper 
and  deeper  with  every  ounce  of  his  great  strength  into  the 
fleshy  throat.  And,  as  he  pressed,  he  had  the  delirious 
exultant  delusion  that  he  was  strangling  all  humanity.  His 
teeth  were  set.  His  eyes  were  terrible  with  hatred. 

The  man's  face  grew  violet,  his  eyes  protruded  loath- 
somely, his  gurgling  mouth  opened  to  press  out  a  swollen 
tongue.  Then  all  at  once  he  relaxed  weakly,  his  whole 
body  I'imp.  Stacey  flung  him  off,  and  he  fell  in  a  sprawled 
motionless  heap  to  the  ground. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  H3 

Stacey  looked  down  for  a  moment  and  pushed  the  body 
with  the  toe  of  his  shoe,  then  turned  away,  wiping  his  hands 
on  his  handkerchief.  He  was  quite  calm  again,  fierce,  but 
with  no  further  impulse  to  kill. 

He  did  not  go  back  and  fight  his  way  into  the  crowd  once 
more.  Where  was  the  use?  He  could  not  break  through. 
Instead,  he  followed  the  alley  in,  leaving  the  roar  of  the 
crowd  behind  him,  and  came  out  eventually  into  another 
street,  parallel  with  the  one  he  had  left.  It,  too,  was 
crowded,  but  not  densely  like  the  first.  Stacey  made  his 
way  off  from  it  swiftly,  and  before  long  reached  still  an- 
other street,  empty,  silent. 

But  from  back  over  there  behind  the  intervening  house- 
walls  came  yet  wilder  noise  and  crackling  volleys  of  shots. 
They  had  got  the  negro,  Stacey  supposed. 

He  strode  on  for  a  1'ong,  long  time — half  an  hour?  an 
hour? — heedless  of  direction,  turning  corners  aimlessly, 
until  at  last  he  was  walking  up  a  street  down  which,  toward 
him,  people  were  flowing  in  groups,  talking  loudly.  The 
show  was  over,  no  doubt,  the  audience  dispersing. 

He  heard  excited  comments.  "The  nigger  got  his,  all 
right !" — "Damn  shame  about  the  mayor !" — "Oh,  I  dunno ! 
Too  damn  fresh!" 

Stacey  whirled  about  and  caught  the  man  who  had  said  it 
was  a  shame.  "Did  they  kill  the  mayor  ?"  he  demanded. 

The  man  addressed  stared,  open-mouthed,  with  frightened 
eyes  at  Stacey's  stern  face.  "N-no!"  he  stammered. 
"They  hung  him  up  tw-twice,  but  he  was — was  cut  down. 
He's  all  right,  I  guess.  Th-they  got  him  away.  I  said  it 
was  a  damned  shame,"  he  added  weakly,  trying  to  release 
himself  from  Stacey's  grasp. 

Stacey  did  not  reply,  but  withdrew  his  hand  and  strode 
on,  his  teeth  set. 

Again  he  walked  aimlessly  for  a  long  while,  but  at  last, 


144  The  Lonely  Warrior 

making  a  wide  curve,  he  turned  back  toward  the  noise  that 
still  came  in  broken  waves  from  the  riot  centre. 

Finally,  led  by  the  glow  of  the  fire,  he  approached  the 
court-house  once  more,  but  now  from  the  north.  On  this 
side  it  was  not  flush  with  the  street  but  set  in  some  fifty 
yards  behind  an  ornamental  grass-plot. 

Street,  grass-plot  and  curving  walks  were  covered  with  a 
howling  throng,  not  so  thick  as  to  prevent  passage,  but  rush- 
ing wildly  this  way  and  that  under  the  red  light  from  the 
burning  building. 

The  centre  of  the  confusion  Stacey  presently  made  out  to 
be  a  motor  car  careering  about  through  the  crowd,  that 
shouted  exultantly  and  stumbled  back  out  of  its  path. 

All  at  once  it  bore  down  on  Stacey.  He  sprang  aside  to 
avoid  it,  then,  looking  back,  saw  that  after  it,  at  the  end  of 
a  rope,  trail'ed  a  shapeless  bumping  object. 

The  rope  that  towed  this  curious  object  caught  for  a  mo- 
ment on  an  electric  light  pole,  the  car  came  to  a  temporary 
halt,  and  Stacey,  bending  over  to  look  at  the  thing  more 
closely,  perceived  that  it  was  the  charred,  naked  and  limbless 
torso  of  a  man. 

Three  hysterical  girls,  their  hats  awry,  their  arms  linked, 
pushed  him  out  of  the  way  and  kicked,  squealing,  at  the 
dead  flesh. 

Stacey  left  the  scene. 

He  found  a  small  lunch-room  open  in  a  neighboring 
street.  It  was  crowded  with  genial  exulting  ex-rioters.  But 
Stacey  pressed  up  to  the  counter,  ordered  sandwiches  and 
coffee,  and  gulped  them  down  ravenously.  He  was  frankly 
famished.  This  did  not  shock  him.  He  was  too  familiar 
with  the  physical  effects  of  emotion  even  to  give  it  a  thought. 
And,  indeed,  so  far  as  emotion  went,  he  had,  despite  his 
almost  impassive  bearing,  gone  through  more  of  it  than  the 
mob  itsel'f.  For  the  mob  had  hated  the  negro  and  the  mayor; 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey  had  been  consumed  with  hatred  of  the  colossal  mob 
itself — and  of  all  men,  all  human  life. 

He  left  the  lunch-room  and  went  to  his  hotel.  As  he 
reached  its  doorway  there  was  an  echoing  tramp  of  steady 
feet,  and  he  turned  to  see  a  company  of  infantry  march  past. 
He  saluted,  and  the  officer  marching  beside  the  men  saluted 
in  return,  gravely. 

"It's  time !"  thought  Stacey  bitterly.  "If  I'd  had  two  men 
and  a  machine-gun  I  could  have  cleared  the  street." 

He  had  thought  he  was  done  with  all  sympathy  for 
armies.  Error!  He  would  have  given  his  right  hand  to- 
night to  be  in  command  of  his  battalion.  Not  because  he 
cared  for  law  and  order.  He  didn't  give  that  for  law 
and  order !  But  because  he  could  have  saved  the  mayor 
— one  brave  man,  a  living  individual — from  the  col- 
lective beast.  And  because  he  could  have  saved  the  negro. 
But  mostly  because  he  could  have  killed !  killed ! 

He  entered  the  hotel.  Here,  too,  though  the  hour  was 
late,  were  excited  groups.  Stacey  pushed  through  them  and 
up  to  the  desk. 

"The  key  to  four  hundred  and  twelve,"  he  demanded 
peremptorily. 

But  the  clerk,  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  was  listening  to  the 
voluble  conversation  of  a  group  of  commercial  travellers 
and  paid  no  attention. 

Stacey  seized  a  paper-weight,  lifted  it,  and  flung  it  down 
with  a  crash.  "Damn  you !  The  key  to  four-twelve,  I  said ! 
And  be  quick  about  it !" 

The  clerk  jumped.  "Y-yes,  sir,"  he  stammered,  and 
reached  a  trembling  hand  for  the  key. 

Probably  at  a  normal'  moment  he  would  have  asserted  his 
right  to  respect  as  a  free  American  citizen.  To-night  things 
were  rather  strange. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  next  morning,  after  Stacey  had  bathed,  he  stood  for  a 
moment,  reflecting,  then  again  put  on  his  uniform.  In  the 
midst  of  dressing  he  paused  to  look  in  the  telephone  direc- 
tory for  the  name  of  the  lieutenant  whom  he  had  especially 
liked  in  his  first  company  and  who,  he  remembered,  lived 
in  Omaha.  He  called  up  the  number. 

"Curtis  Traile's  house?  .  .  .  Oh,  this  Traile?  Good! 
Stacey  Carroll  talking." 

He  heard  a  joyful  exclamation.  "It  is!  What  are  you 
doing  here  ?  Where  are  you  ?" 

Stacey  told  him. 

"Then  you — you  saw  all  that  mess  last  night  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stacey  drily.  "Listen,  Traile!  Can  I  see 
you  this  morning?  If  you'll  tell  me  how  to  get  to  where 
you  live  I'll— " 

"You  will  not !  I'll  be  around  at  the  hotel  for  you  inside 
of  twenty  minutes." 

"All  right.  Thanks.  You'll  find  me  in  the  dining- 
room.  'Bye !" 

Stacey  went  down  into  the  dining-room  and  ordered  break- 
fast. Then  he  unfolded  a  newspaper.  Outwardly  he  ap- 
peared as  unmoved  as  ever.  It  was  only  when  he  came  upon 
the  one  piece  of  news  he  cared  about — "Mayor's  Condition 
Serious!  Still  Unconscious  at  Three  This  Morning!  Doc- 
tors Hopeful!" — that  a  ripple  of  emotion  passed  over  his 
face.  He  ate  his  breakfast  calmly. 

But  on  page  four  he  happened  upon  a  small  item  cursorily 
recorded  which  he  read  with  interest. 

"At  twelve-thirty  this  morning  after  the  termination  of 

146 


The  Lonely  Warrior  147 

the  rio^  Sergeant  of  Police  Bassett,  who  was  patrolling 
Seventeenth  Street,  heard  groans  issuing  from  the  covered 
alley  leading  in  behind  the  Boyd  Theatre.  On  investigating 
he  discovered  that  they  came  from  a  man  lying  in  the  alley 
in  a  semi-unconscious  condition  and  apparently  suffering 
from  attempted  strangulation.  When  able  to  speak  he  at 
first  gave  his  name  as  John  Smith  and  claimed  to  have  been 
assaulted,  at  what  time  he  could  not  say,  by  a  man  wearing 
U.  S.  Army  uniform.  Later  he  admitted  he  was  Adolph 
Kraft  of  ll02  Chicago  Street  and  withdrew  his  first  story, 
declaring  that  he  was  attacked  by  an  unknown  man  while 
endeavoring  to  restrain  the  rioters  from  further  violence. 
He  was  taken  to  Ford  Hospital,  where  his  condition  was 
said  to  be  serious  but  not  critical.  The  police  attach  little 
credence  to  either  story  told  by  Kraft,  believing  his  injury 
to  be  the  result  of  some  personal  vengeance  carried  out 
during  the  confusion  of  the  riot.  Kraft  was  formerly  a 
bar-tender  and  so  far  as  known  has  no  present  occupation. 
He  has  been  twice  convicted  of  petty  offences." 

"So  I  didn't  kill  him,  after  all,"  thought  Stacey.  "Doesn't 
appear  that  he'd  have  been  much  of  a  loss."  But  he  re- 
flected dispassionately,  merely  as  noting  a  fact,  that  in  his 
assault  he  had  shown  the  same  overwhelming  desire  to  kill 
that  had  possessed  the  mob.  That  the  cause  was  different 
on  his  part  did  not  matter  a  straw.  His  intense  will  to  mur- 
der had  been  the  same  as  theirs.  Too  bad !  Not  detached 
enough!  Not  detached  enough!  He  should  have  slain  the 
man  coldly. 

A  cordial  voice  interrupted  his  meditations.  "Well,  Cap- 
tain ! — I  say !  You're  in  uniform !  You  of  all  people !  How 
come  ?" 

"Hello,  Traile,"  said  Stacey,  looking  up  and  shaking 
hands. 

The  lieutenant  was  young  and  had  a  fresh  pleasant  ex- 


148  The  Lonely  Warrior 

pression  when,  as  now,  he  was  smiling.  When,  as  a  moment 
later,  his  face  grew  sober  again  there  was  a  certain  gravity 
in  it,  as  though  a  curtain  had  been  dropped, — a  hint  of  the 
same  shadow  that  hung  about  Stacey.  And  this  odd  con- 
trast in  the  young  man's  face  between  buoyant  youthfulness 
and  weary  knowledge  impressed  Stacey,  since  he  had  not 
seen  Traile  for  many  months,  and  was  therefore  now  seeing 
him  freshly. 

"This  is  fine!"  Traile  continued  swiftly.  "But  it  was 
pretty  rotten  of  you  to  be  here  so  long  and  never  let  me 
know.  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it  now,  you  see!  Dropped 
around  at  Burnham's  on  the  way  here." 

"How  is  he?" 

"Fine !  He  told  me  about  your  coming  and  staying  with 
him.  Confound  it !  he  might  have  let  me  know  he  was  sick ! 
But  no !  his  wife  had  to  go  and  wire  you !"  Traile  concluded 
ruefully,  pausing  for  breath.  He  sat  down. 

"Have  some  breakfast?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I've  eaten.  Then  you — you  saw  all  that 
last  night?" 

Stacey  nodded.  "Have  you  read  the  estimable  comment 
in  the  morning  paper  ?"  he  asked.  "Listen ! — 'Whatever  the 
provocation  it  does  not  -warrant  any  band  of  men  taking 
the  law  into  their  own  hands  unless  they  are  prepared  to 
face  the  judgment  of  their  fellow  citizens  for  such  an  act' 
Seems  sufficiently  moderate,  don't  you  think?" 

Traile  flushed.  "Isn't  that  damnable!"  he  blurted  out 
boyishly.  "You  must  think  I  live  in  a  rotten  town !" 

"No,"  said  Stacey  somberly,  "I  wish  I  did  think  so.  If 
that  were  all  there  was  to  it  we  could  band  together  cheer- 
fully to  blow  up  Omaha." 

"I  tell  you  what,  Captain!"  Traile  cried,  his  face  stern. 
"We're  going  after  the  leaders  if  we  can  get  them — going 
after  them  hard !  There  are  scores  of  names  listed  already ; 


The  Lonely  Warrior  149 

there'll  be  twice  as  many  by  to-night.  General  Wood's  been 
ordered  here.  Arriving  to-morrow  morning.  And  mean- 
while we're  organizing  the  Legion  men." 

Stacey  nodded.  "I  thought  you  would  be.  That's  what  I 
particularly  wanted  to  see  you  about.  I'm  not  from  here, 
of  course,  but  I  want  you  to  let  me  in  on  it." 

Traile's  face  radiated  a  sudden  joyful'  surprise.  "You, 
Captain  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why  not  ?"  asked  Stacey  coolly,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"Well,"  stammered  the  other,  "I — of  course  we'll  take 
you  in  with  a  rush.  You're  in  uniform,  too.  How 
come  ?" 

Stacey  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "You  needn't  be  em- 
barrassed, Traile,"  he  said.  "You're  quite  right.  I  don't 
like  army  stuff  and  I  don't  care  a  fig  about  helping  main- 
tain law  and  order  in  this  pleasant  world.  But  if"  he  said, 
his  eyes  and  voice  hard,  "I  can  do  any  fighting  against  a 
thousand  beasts  that  tortured  one  lone  individual,  and 
especially  that  mauled  and  half  killed  the  one  man  who  stood 
up  to  them" — his  teeth  snapped  together — "why,  then,  I'd 
like  to ;  that's  all,"  he  concluded  in  his  normal  voice. 

Traile  stared  afe  him  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "Come 
home  with  me,"  he  said,  and  rose. 

"Sure !"  remarked  Stacey  calmly.  "Just  give  me  time  to 
sign  my  check." 

Traile's  car  was  outside.  They  entered  it  and  drove 
swiftly  off. 

"Just  to  show  you  the  way  some  of  us  feel  about  this," 
the  lieutenant  remarked  presently,  "I'll  tell  you  that  I've 
been  'phoning  steadily  ever  since  six-thirty  this  morning. 
That's  why  you  got  me  so  promptly  when  you  called  up." 

"To  our  boys?" 

Traile  nodded. 

"What  results?" 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

The  lieutenant  frowned,  gave  the  car  a  sudden  exas- 
perated burst  of  speed,  then  slowed  down  somewhat.  "Un- 
satisfactory. Hang  it,  they  won't  come !  Only  two  of  'em, 
Mills  and  Jackson,  who're  at  my  house  now." 

"Did  you  really  think  they'd  volunteer?" 

"No,"  said  Traite  shortly,  "I  didn't.  The  ones  who'll 
jump  at  the  job  will  be  the  sweet  lads  who  drilled  in  safe 
camps  and  neVer  so  much  as  saw  a  transport." 

"Oh,  well,"  Stacey  replied  coolly,  "that  wasn't  their  fault, 
and  no  more's  their  point  of  view.  You're  a  funny  cuss, 
Traile!  Here  you  are,  wanting  men  to  show  up,  yet  I'm 
blessed  if  you  aren't  railing  at  the  ones  who  do  and  praising 
your  men  because  they  don't !" 

"That's  right,"  admitted  the  other,  laughing  sheepishly. 
"But  then,  aren't  we  all  that — funny  cusses,  I  mean — we 
chaps  who  saw  the  real  show?"  he  added  meditatively. 
"Anyhow,  will  you  try  them,  Captain?  Maybe,"  he  con- 
cluded diffidently,  "they'll  come  for  you." 

Stacey  nodded.  "I'll  try,"  he  assented.  "How  many  en- 
listed men  of  C  Company,  your  company,  live  here  ?" 

"Twelve,"  said  Traile  promptly. 

"And  how  many  of  D  Company — do  you  happen  to 
know?" 

"Ten.    Here  we  are." 

They  turned  into  a  curved  driveway  leading  up  to  a  hand- 
some residence.  Traile  hurried  Stacey  out  of  the  car  and 
down  the  hall  of  the  house  to  the  library. 

"Here's  who  I  made  you  wait  for,  boys !"  he  cried.  "You 
didn't  know— eh  ?" 

The  two  men  in  the  room  sprang  to  salute,  surprise  and 
unmistakable  pleasure  in  their  faces. 

Stacey  felt  a  sudden  touch  of  gratitude,  that  was  like  the 
warm  trickle  of  a  brook  into  an  ice-bound  lake.  Yet  he 
said  little  enough  to  the  men  in  the  way  of  greeting — only  a 


The  Lonely  Warrior  151' 

word  or  two,  and  shook  their  hands.  Then  he  plunged  at 
once  into  business. 

"Mills,"  he  said,  "can  you  and  Jackson  corral  all  the  men 
of  your  company  and  of  D  Company  too,  and  get  them 
around  here  to  see  me,  without  obligation  to  anything — say 
at  noon  sharp — that  all  right,  Lieutenant?"  Traile  nodded. 

"Yes,  sir,"  they  replied  in  unison. 

"All  right.    Let's  make  out  a  list,  Lieutenant." 

"Now  what's  to  do?"  Traile  remarked  impatiently  when 
the  men  had  departed.  He  was  walking  nervously  about 
the  room. 

"Do?"  said  Stacey.  "Nothing, — unless  you  can  give  me 
a  drink." 

"You  bet  I  can !"  the  other  cried  boyishly,  and  pushed  a 
bell  in  the  wall.  "Leagues  and  leagues  of  wine-cellar. 
Family  away  in  Maine.  Whole  house  to  myself.  Great! 
Come  in,  Blake.  Scotch,  please, — V.  O.  P. — and  glasses  and 
ice  and  all  that  sort  of  thing."  He  flung  himself  down  in 
a  chair.  "Funny !  Ever  since  I  got  back  I  feel  as  though  I 
had  to  be  doing  something  all  the  time,  and  yet  there  isn't  a 
damned  thing  I  really  want  to  do.  You  feel'  that  way  at 
all,  Captain?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stacey,  smoking  moodily.  "Now  let's  see,"  he 
added  in  a  different  tone.  "Where  do  we  stand?  What's 
the  state  of  affairs  in  town?" 

Traile  sat  up,  alert  again.  "Two  companies  of  troops 
from  Fort  Crook  patrolling  the  city — couldn't  get  here  1'ast 
night  in  time  to  do  any  good,"  he  added  bitterly,  "because 
permission  had  to  be  granted  from  Washington  first." 

"I  recognize  the  well-loved  system." 

"Uh-huh.  General  Wood  arriving  to-morrow  morning. 
No  definite  plan  of  action  to  be  adopted  till  he  gets  here. 
Listing  of  names  of  suspects  going  on  rapidly,  however." 

Stacey  nodded.    "Do  you  think,"  he  asked  meditatively, 


152  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"that  we'll  have  a  chance  to  be  in  on  the  arresting  part  of 
the  game?  That's  what  I  want.  Patrolling  streets  is 
no  use." 

"Sure  I  do!  The  colonel  from  the  fort  said  as  much. 
'T's  just  what  they  will  use  us  of  the  Legion  for,  because  we 
know  the  town.  Here  are  our  drinks.  Now  when  we've 
drunk  them  what  in  hell  shall  we  do?  I  know!"  he  cried 
triumphantly.  "We'll  drive  around  to  the  hotel  and  bring 
your  things  over  here,  where  they  ought  to  have  been  all 
the  time." 

Stacey  smiled.  "All  right,"  he  assented.  "I  don't  care 
much  for  the  night  cl'erk  at  that  hotel." 

At  five  minutes  to  twelve  the  library  all  at  once  overflowed 
with  men.  There  was  pride  in  Stacey's  look  as  he 
greeted  them. 

"How  many,  Mills?"  he  demanded,  after  a  moment. 
"Twenty  out  of  twenty-two,  sir.    Burnham's  sick — as  you 
know  better 'n   any  one   else,   Captain.    Monahan,   he — he 
couldn'ttcome." 

"He  couldn't?"  Stacey's  voice  was  regretful.  "That's 
too  bad."  He  paused  for  a  moment,  reflecting.  Then  he 
drew  himself  up  very  straight  and  gazed  at  the  men,  looking 
keenly  from  one  to  another. 

"Now  look  here,  men,"  he  said.  "You're  fed  up  on  army 
stuff  and  so  am  I.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  haven't 
got  a  bit  of  authority  over  you.  I  can't  tell  you  to  go  and 
do  anything  you  don't  want  to  do.  But  last  night  some 
things  were  done  in  this  town  that  I  happened  to  see.  And 
one  of  them  was  that  a  brave  man  stood  out  in  front  of  a 
mob  of  beasts  and  said  'no'  to  them.  And  what  happened  to 
him  because  he  said  'no/  as  any  one  of  you  would  have  said, 
was — oh,  God  damn  it!  you  know  what  it  was!" 

Stacey's  face  was  white  now,  and  his  voice  shook  with 
anger. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  153 

"He  was  your  mayor,"  he  continued  after  a  moment,  "but 
it  isn't  that  I  care  about.  What  I  care  about  is  that  he  was 
a  man.  You  fought  the  Germans  and  no  one  knows  better 
than  I  how  you  fought  them.  Well,  there  were  men  among 
the  Germans,  decent  men,  whatever  we  think  about  what 
they  fought  for.  In  this  mob  last  night  there  weren't  any 
men — just  beasts.  And  I  ask  you — just  ask  you,  mind! — 
if  you'll  turn  in  with  Lieutenant  Traile  and  me  and  go  after 
them.  That's  all,"  he  concluded,  and  shut  his  teeth  with 
a  snap. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause.  Then :  "I  guess  you  know, 
Captain,"  said  one  of  the  men  awkwardly,  "that  we'll  all 
of  us  do  whatever  you  say — and  do  it  quick!"  he  added 
sharply. 

"Thanks,  Sergeant.  Is  that  the  way  you  all  feel'  about 
it?  .  .  .  Thanks  again." 

"Now  then,"  he  went  on,  in  a  brisker,  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"Lieutenant  Traile  tells  me  that  we'll  be  able  to  make  ar- 
rests. Well,  that's  what  we  want.  I  wouldn't  have  called 
you  across  the  block  for  the  sake  of  patrolling  streets. 
That's  a  Boy  Scout  job.  This  is  the  way  it'll  be,  I  suppose. 
Officers  will  get  lists  given  them  and  go  out  with  a  patrol  of 
men  to  get  the  animals  listed.  I  don't  know  how  many  men 
they'll  assign  to  each  officer,  but  two  will  be  enough.  Now 
listen  to  me.  I  only  want  four  of  you  to  show  up  in  uni- 
form. Let's  see — er — Morgan  and  Isaacs  for  me,  Mills  and 
Jackson  for  Lieutenant  Traile.  The  rest  of  you,  all  sixteen, 
keep  out  of  uniform.  Don't  show  up  at  any  Legion  meeting. 
Report  to  me  through  Sergeant  Peters  and  Corporals  Petit- 
valle,  Elaine  and  Swanson.  You're  to  find  out  where  the 
men  are  whose  names  we'll  have  given  us.  They  won't  be 
at  their  homes,  of  course,  most  of  them.  Then  the  six  of 
us  in  uniform  will  go  get  them.  D'you  see?  Dirty  work! 
Spies'  work!  Informing!"  He  paused  questioningly,  but 


154  The  Lonely  Warrior 

the  laughter  that  greeted  his  warning  was  reassuring.  "All 
right,  then,"  he  said  easily.  "You  won't  be  very  popular,  of 
course,  but  who  wants  to  be  popular  with  skunks?  That's 
all  for  now.  Nothing  doing  till  General  Wood  arrives. 
The  sergeant  and  the  three  corporals  will  come  here  at  nine 
to-morrow  morning — in  civilian  clothes,  mind! — and  await 
instructions.  Morgan,  Isaacs,  Mills,  and  Jackson  show  up, 
in  uniform,  at  the  Legion  meeting  to-morrow  after  General 
Wood's  arrival." 

When  the  men  had  gone  Traile  looked  at  Stacey  oddly. 
"Gee  whiz,  Captain !"  he  cried  finally,  "you're  stronger  than 
ever  on  love  for  military  discipline,  aren't  you?  Here 
you've  gone  and  organized  a  civilian  detective  service  right 
in  the  bosom  of  the  army !  Oh,  cripey !"  And  he  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Well,"  said  Stacey  coolly,  "what  we  want  is  to  get  those 
men,  isn't  it?" 

But  Blake  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Good!"  Traile  exclaimed.  "Lunch  is  ready.  We'll  go 
down.  And  this  afternoon  there's  a  Legion  meeting.  I'll 
take  you  over.  Not  for  the  joy  of  it,  but  just  because  I'll 
have  to  present  you  to  the  officers — and  to  the  colonel  from 
Fort  Crook.  He'll  be  there." 

The  next  morning,  while  the  two  men  were  at  breakfast, 
Traile  was  called  to  the  telephone.  He  returned  after  five 
minutes,  his  face  radiant. 

"  'T's  all  right,"  he  said.  "Commander  of  Legion  called 
me  up.  General  got  in  two  hours  ago.  Already  conferred 
with  governor,  city  commissioner,  police  department,  every- 
thing else  conferrable.  Police  department  transferred  to  the 
colonel,  commanding  officer  at  Fort  Crook.  Already  taken 
control.  All  arrests  to  be  military  arrests — oh,  boy!  that 
means  us!  General  to  see  Legion  members  at  ten  this 
morning." 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

"And  the  mayor?" 

"Damned  if  I  didn't  forget  to  ask!"  Traile  looked  at 
Stacey  remorsefully.  "You  really  do  feel  badly  about  the 
mayor,  don't  you?"  he  said.  "You're  a — a  good  sort,  Cap- 
tain, if  you  don't  mind  my  impertinence  in  saying  so,"  he 
concluded  impetuously. 

"No,"  said  Stacey  quietly,  "I'm  not  a  good  sort.  I'm  only 
mad, — that's  all;  and  I'm  not  forgetting  why.  You're  ten 
years  younger  than  I,  Traile.  You're  rather  enjoying 
the  lark." 

"All  the  same,"  the  other  insisted  soberly,  "you  are  sorry 
about  the  mayor,  as  well  as  mad.  I'll  go  call  up  the 
hospital." 

"Better,"  he  said,  when  he  came  back.  "Improving 
slowly." 

Stacey  nodded. 

When  they  set  out  for  the  Legion  meeting  they  left  behind 
them  the  four  N.  C.  O.'s,  in  civilian  dress,  sitting  placidly 
in  the  library. 

"You  know,"  observed  Traile  exultantly,  as  he  set  his  car 
plunging  down  the  driveway,  "it's  not  at  all  a  bad  thing  the 
general  couldn't  get  here  till  to-day.  Because  all  the  con- 
glomerate skunks  of  this  town  didn't  get  on  to  the  fact  that 
we  meant  business.  They've  had  one  whole  joyful  day 
with  nothing  doing  but  a  few  troops  marching  around,  and 
they've  fairly  laid  themselves  open  with  bragging  about  what 
they  did  Sunday  night.  One  long  bright  day  of  practically 
handing  out  their  names  on  a  platter.  Scores  and  scores  of 
'em  on  the  lists." 

There  were  perhaps  three  hundred  Legion  members  in  the 
large  room  they  entered.  General  Wood  appeared  almost 
at  once,  the  colonel  from  Fort  Crook  beside  him. 

Stacey  gazed  at  the  general  with  interest.  A  clear  honest 
face,  he  thought  swiftly,  with  no  appearance  either  of  bitter- 


156  The  Lonely  Warrior 

ness  or  the  autocratic  spirit.  A  good  soldier  from  his  rec- 
ord— not  a  doubt  of  it;  but  why  in  the  world  had  such  a 
man  chosen  to  be  a  soldier,  and  how  had  he  come  through 
it  looking  like  that? 

The  general  wasted  no  time.  "There  are  long  lists  of 
men  implicated  in  this  business,"  he  said  to  the  three  hun- 
dred. "Your  job  will  be  to  go  out  and  get  them.  When  you 
go  to  make  an  arrest  use  no  more  force  than  is  necessary  and 
use  all  the  force  that  is  necessary.  Remember  you  are  sent 
for  a  certain  man.  Come  back  with  him.  Bring  him  in 
alive  if  possible.  But  bring  him  in.  Officers  will  now  report 

to  Colonel  M ."  And  the  general  left  the  room 

abruptly. 

Presently  Stacey  and  Traile  received  their  lists — ten 
names  apiece. 

"We'd  like  just  four  men  for  escort — two  each,  sir,  if 
it's  all  the  same  to  you.  May  we  pick  the  four?"  Traile 
asked. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  colonel.  "Get  service  revolvers  for 
yourselves  and  rifles  for  your  men  of  the  ordnance  officer. 
Bring  your  prisoners  here  to  police  headquarters  as  you 
get  them." 

"Pshaw !"  the  lieutenant  remarked  in  disgust,  as  they  were 
speeding  swiftly  homeward,  with,  in  the  tonneau  behind 
them,  the  four  men,  armed  now  and  in  uniform,  whom 
Stacey  had  chosen  as  escort  the  day  before.  "Pshaw! 
What's  twenty  names  ?" 

They  left  their  guard  in  the  hall  of  Traile's  house,  went 
into  the  library,  and  copied  their  lists  for  the  other  four 
men  who  were  waiting  there. 

"All  right,"  Stacey  remarked.  "Start  at  it.  As  soon  as 
any  one's  located  send  one  of  your  men  around  to  report 
to  us.  And  you'd  better  detail  some  one  to  see  that  he 
doesn't  get  away  in  the  meantime." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  i$7 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peters.  "I  guess  you'll  find  that  all  right, 
Captain.  We've  worked  out  a  plan." 

"I  thought  you  would  have,  Sergeant." 

The  men  saluted,  for  all  that  they  were  in  civilian  clothes, 
and  went  out. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  Traile  fidgeted,  but 
Stacey  was  impassive.  Suddenly  he  smiled.  It  had  oc- 
curred to  him  that,  having  learned  from  the  newspaper  item 
the  name  of  the  man  he  had  attempted  to  strangle  Sunday 
night,  he  could  easily  lay  an  information  against  him  and 
proceed  to  arrest  him — supposing  he  was  sufficiently  re- 
covered to  permit  of  arrest.  Stacey  smiled  (he  had  a  rather 
grisly  sense  of  humor)  because  he  could  picture  the  horror 
on — what  was  his  name  ? — Kraft's  brutish  face  when  he  saw 
his  assailant  himself  come  for  him.  But  it  was  only  a  di- 
verting fancy.  Stacey  did  not  follow  it  up.  In  the  matter 
of  retribution  he  thought  Kraft  had  had  his  share. 

"You'll  take  my  car,  Captain — you  can  drive  a  Cadillac, 
can't  you  ? — and  I'll  use  my  father's,"  Traile  suggested. 

"All  right." 

In  less  than  an  hour  a  man  reported  with  an  address. 

"You  go  after  him,  Lieutenant,"  said  Stacey  calmly. 
"You're  more  in  a  hurry  than  I  am." 

Traile  went  joyfully. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  two  more  were  announced  to  be 
located,  and,  as  Stacey  was  on  the  point  of  getting  into 
Traile's  car  with  Morgan  and  Isaacs  (his  escort),  and  the 
two  men  who  had  reported,  still  another  name  was 
brought  in. 

Stacey  went  after  them.  Two  he  got  without  difficulty, 
disregarding  their  cringing  protestations  of  innocence  with 
the  same  impassive  disgust  he  had  shown — except  for  one 
moment — toward  the  mob  on  Sunday  night.  The  third,  who 
was  hiding  in  the  back  room  of  a  saloon  and  was  encouraged 


158  The  Lonely  Warrior 

by  the  presence  of  companions,  showed  fight,  until  Stacey 
rapped  him  dispassionately  on  the  head  with  the  butt  of  his 
revolver.  Stacey  took  his  prisoners  to  the  police  station  and 
returned  to  the  house. 

Traile  had  already  been  there  and  gone  again.  Two  other 
men  were  waiting,  and  Stacey  set  off  once  more. 

"Beautiful  system!  Works  like  a  charm.  Good  man, 
Peters!  Too  bad  Burnham  can't  be  in  on  it!"  he  thought 
to  himself.  He  wondered  once  or  twice  why  Monahan 
couldn't  come.  He  felt  a  little  sorry.  He  had  always  liked 
Monahan. 

At  four  o'clock  he  and  Trail'e  had  brought  the  last  men 
on  their  lists  to  the  police  station. 

"Pshaw !"  said  the  lieutenant,  "it's  too  easy ! — though  two 
of  the  ones  I  got  livened  things  up  for  a  while.  Come  on! 
Let's  ask  for  more." 

They  reported  to  the  colonel. 

"We've  got  all  our  men,  sir,"  said  Traile,  who  was  spokes- 
man because  he  knew  the  officer  personally. 

"What!"  the  colonel  exclaimed.  "All  twenty!  Why,  no 
one  else  has  got  a  third  through  his  list  yet !  Complain  they 
can't  find  their  men." 

"We  were  lucky,  I  guess,  sir,"  Traile  returned.  "May  we 
have  some  more  names?" 

"Sure !    Coming  in  all  the  time." 

They  received  two  further  lists,  dropped  them  in  their 
pockets,  and  set  off  once  more. 

But  when  in  the  library  each  read  his  own  paper  through, 
Stacey  started  slightly.  There  were  only  nine  names  on  the 
copied  list  that  he  handed  to  Peters. 

At  ten  that  evening  they  reported  once  more  to  the 
colonel. 

"I've  brought  in  all  but  two  on  my  list,  sir,"  said  Traile, 


The  Lonely  Warrior  159 

"and  Captain  Carroll  all  but  three  on  his.  They're  begin- 
ning to  get  wise  and  skip  out  of  town." 

The  colonel  considered  the  two  men  curiously.  "How  on 
earth  do  you  do  it  ?"  he  asked. 

Traile  grinned.  He  had  always  been  irrepressibly  unmili- 
tary;  it  was  why  Stacey  had  liked  him.  "Just  system,  sir," 
he  replied.  "Can  you  give  us  some  more  names?" 

The  colonel  reflected.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said  finally. 
"I'll  make  you  out  a  list — one  list,  since  it's  clear  you  two 
work  together — of  twenty  men  the  others  couldn't  get,  but 
who  aren't  supposed  to  have  1'eft  the  city.  Go  after  them 
and  see  what  you  can  do,  but  not  till  to-morrow  morning. 
Mind!  That's  an  order!  These  are  a  bad  lot — crooks, 
nearly  all  of  them,  the  chief  of  police  says.  I  don't  want  any 
midnight  casualties  among  Legion  men." 

The  two  took  their  escort  to  their  homes,  then  drove  back 
to  the  house.  But  as  they  got  out  of  the  car  Stacey  paused. 

"Traile,"  he  said,  "will  you  let  me  have  your  car  for  a 
little  while?  There's  some  one  I  want  to  see.  I'll  be  back 
inside  of  an  hour." 

"Sure!  You  know  you  don't  have  to  ask."  But  Traile 
could  not  conceal  his  boyish  curiosity. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  soon — by  to-morrow,  I  hope,"  Stacey 
remarked,  climbing  back  into  the  car.  "You  copy  out  that 
list  for  our  men,  will  you?  and  tell  them  we'll  be  ready  at 
seven  to-morrow  morning." 

Traile  nodded,  and  Stacey  set  off.  He  drove  the  car 
slowly  along  the  avenue  until  he  sighted  a  policeman,  then 
drew  up  beside  him. 

"Where's  Dodge  Street,  please?"  he  asked.  "And  where 
would  eight-sixteen  be  ?" 

The  officer  explained  carefully,  and  Stacey  drove  on.  It 
was  a  long  way  to  the  street  he  sought,  but  he  reached  it 


160  The  Lonely  Warrior 

at  last  and  found  the  number — a  boarding-house  in  the 
section  near  the  railway. 

"Is  James  Monahan  in?"  he  asked  the  woman  who  an- 
swered the  ring. 

"Hall  bedroom  on  the  third  floor,"  she  replied,  looking 
suspiciously  at  his  uniform.  "I  don't  know  if  he's  in." 

Stacey  went  up  the  stairs  and  knocked  at  the  door.  There 
was  a  kind  of  growl  from  inside  that  might  have  been  meant 
for :  "Come  in" ;  so  Stacey  entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  a  small  bare  room,  at  the  other  end  of  which,  beside 
the  bed,  an  enormous  red-haired  Irishman  stood  like  a  her- 
culean statue.  He  was  bent  forward  in  a  half-crouching 
attitude  and  held  menacingly  at  shoulder  height,  grasped  in 
both  hands,  a  chair,  with  the  obvious  intention  of  hurling 
it  at  the  intruder. 

Stacey  involuntarily  started.  Then  a  gleam  of  apprecia- 
tion came  into  his  eye.  The  man's  attitude  was  magnificent. 
Rodin  might  have  posed  him. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  Monahan,"  he  said  easily,  "you 
give  a  fellow  a  cordial  reception !"  And  he  dropped  into  a 
chair — the  only  other  one  in  the  room. 

The  man  lowered  his  chair  slowly,  a  look  of  blank  amaze- 
ment, changing  gradually  to  gloom,  coming  over  his  face. 

"Christ  Almighty!  Captain!"  he  muttered  finally.  "So 
it's  you  that's  come  to  arrest  me !" 

"It  is  not!"  cried  Stacey  angrily,  "and  you  ought  to  know 
it  isn't!" 

The  man  shook  his  red  hair  back  from  his  forehead  and 
stood  there,  gazing  at  Stacey. 

"Sit  down,  can't  you?"  said  Stacey  sharply.  "You  take 
up  too  damned  much  room  that  way." 

A  faint  smile  curved  the  giant's  mouth  and  wrinkled  the 
corners  of  his  eyes.  He  sat  down  carefully,  the  chair  creak- 
ing beneath  him. 

Stacey  reflected,  staring  at  him  thoughtfully.  "Mona- 
han," he  began  at  last,  "I  found  your  name  on  a  list  of  men 
I  was  to  go  out  and  get  for  that  Sunday  night  row.  What's 
the  meaning  of  that  ?" 

161 


162  The  Lonely  Warrior 

The  Irishman's  face  flamed.  "I  didn't  have  a  thing  to 
do  with  it !"  he  burst  out. 

"Oh,  hell!  I  know  you  didn't!"  said  Stacey  impatiently. 
"You  were,"  he  continued  slowly,  "the  most  unmanageable 
man  in  my  battalion  (and  the  one  I  cared  most  for,"  he 
added  to  himself).  "You  were  quarrelsome,  you  had  fits 
of  sullenness,  you  made  me  trouble  on  an  average  about 
seven  days  a  week,  and  you  broke  every  rule  it  was  possible 
to  break,  but  you  wouldn't  any  more  have  been  part  of  a 
mob  to  pick  on  a  man  than  you'd  have  turned  tail  and  run 
in  an  attack.  Now  what  is  this  charge  about  ?" 

A  slow  smile  had  spread  over  Monahan's  vast  face. 
"That's  a  hell  of  a  fine  character  you've  given  me,  Captain 
dear !"  he  observed. 

"It  might  be  worse.    Go  on.    Clear  this  thing  up." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story,  Captain,"  he  began. 
"I  don't  hol'd  much  with  niggers,  but  I  don't  hold  neither 
with  getting  five  thousand  men  together — real  bold-like — 
and  going  out  and  lynching  one  nigger.  And  Sunday  night 
when  I  seen  what  was  doing  I  was  pretty  mad.  But  not  half 
as  mad  as  I  was  when  right  in  front  of  my  nose  a  bunch  of 
white-livered  sons  of  bitches  got  hold  of  the  mayor,  who 
was  acting  like  a  man,  and  strung  him  up — by  God !  strung 
him  up  to  a  pole!  I  was  there,  Captain,  and  I  pitched  in 
and  I  fought  the  dirtiest  I  knew  how — 'n'  you  know  whether 
we  was  trained  to  fight  dirty  or  not.  And  by  'n'  by  I 
kicked  one  man  in  the  guts  and  another  in  the  knee — me 
getting  madder  'n'  madder  because  all  th'  time  there  was  the 
mayor  swinging  and  twitching  up  there — but  some  one  else 
got  up  the  pole  'n'  cut  him  down  before  I  could  get  there, 
'n'  then  some  damn  cold-blooded  skunk  of  a  photographer 
took  a  flash-light  picture,  'n'  then  all  of  a  sudden  there's 
Sergeant  McCarthy  of  the  police  beside  me,  'n'  he  says: 
'By  God !  Monahan !  I  didn't  think  it  of  you !'  So  there  I 


The  Lonely  Warrior  163 

am  in  the  photograph  at  headquarters  's  clear  as  life,  and 
there's  McCarthy  to  testify  I  was  one  of  them  that  lynched 
th'  mayor."  He  paused,  an  expression  of  resentment  and 
resignation  on  his  face. 

Stacey  considered  him  thoughtfully.  "Why  don't  you  go 
around  to  police  headquarters,  give  yourself  up,  and  tell 
the  truth?" 

Monahan  shook  his  head.    "There  wouldn't  anybody  be- 
lieve me,  Captain,"  he  said  sullenly.    "  'Fat  story,  me  lad, 
with  your  record !'  they'd  say.    They'd  laugh  at  me." 
"What  do  you  mean — 'your  record'  ?" 
"I've  been  twice  in  the  jug,  Captain,  since  I  got  back,"  the 
Irishman  growled,  "and  I'll  tell  you  about  that,  too,  if  you'll 
listen. 

"When  I  got  back  from  across — and  I  wish  to  God  I'd 
never  come  back! — I  got  me  a  job  at  the  packing-house. 
Well,  who  should  I  find  for  my  foreman  but  a  white-livered 
skunk  called  Barton?  'N'  I'll  tell'  you  about  Barton,  too. 
Barton,  he  got  exempted  from  the  draft  as  being  the  sole 
support  of  one  poor  aged  mother  'n'  two  poor  little  sisters. 
Now  the  truth  about  that  skunk  was,  so  help  me  God !  that 
he  never  done  one  thing  for  them — not  a  red  cent  had  he 
given  them  for  years,  Captain !  All  the  little  they  had  come 
to  them  from  a  brother's  son  of  the  old  lady. 
"But  that  ain't  all— not  hal'f ,  Captain !" 
Monahan  paused  and  thrust  his  shaggy  red  head  forward. 
His  eyes  gleamed  dangerously. 

"I  had  a  girl,  Captain,  when  I  went  away,"  he  went  on, 
in  a  deep  rumbling  voice,  "and  a  good  girl  she  was.  But 
this  Barton,  he  comes  shining  around  and  shining  around, 
V  she  falls  for  him  like  a  little  fool,  'n'  after  a  while  he 
goes  'n'  marries  her, — which  he  wouldn't  have  done,  Barton 
wouldn't,  if  it  hadn't  been  that  she  had  two  brothers,  big 
strong  up-standing  men  who  sort  of  urged  him  on. 


164  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Well,  when  I  see  this  skunk  there  for  my  foreman  things 
just  busted  up  inside  me,  'n'  the  very  first  day  at  th'  noon 
hour  I  laid  for  him  in  a  quiet  place  in  the  yard  and  I  says : 
'Now  fight,  you  God-damned,  white-livered  son  of  a  bastard 
German  skunk!'  'N'  Barton  hollered  for  help  and  a  lot 
of  men  come  running,  but  not  before  I'd  handled  him  a  little 
rough — though  not  half  what  I  could  have  done  with  more 
time.  Well,  would  you  believe  it,  Captain?  for  that  little 
bit  of  righteous  trifling  th'  judge  give  me  six  days !" 

The  aggrieved  innocence  in  the  Irishman's  face  was  too 
much.  Stacey  struggled,  then  gave  up  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. "Go  on !  Go  on,  Jim !"  he  cried  at  last. 

Monahan,  too,  had  laughed,  finally,  but  at  Stacey's  words 
his  face  grew  dark  again.  "When  I  come  out,"  he  continued 
angrily,  "I  went  back  for  my  job,  'n'  they  wouldn't  give  it 
to  me,  the  rotten  skunks!  'N'  they'd  blacklisted  me,  too. 
Not  another  job  in  any  packing-house  could  I  get."  He 
paused,  with  a  growl. 

Stacey  considered  him,  at  once  sympathetically  and  curi- 
ously. He  noted  that  in  recounting  the  damning  evidence  of 
the  flash-light  picture  and  McCarthy's  misinterpretation  of 
his  presence  at  the  lynching,  Monahan  had  displayed  only  a 
melancholy  resentment  against  fate;  it  was  his  later  dis- 
covery that  an  organization  was  against  him  which  shook 
him  with  anger.  Now  McCarthy's  remark  had  been  grossly 
unjust,  and  the  attitude  of  Monahan's  employers  was  not 
altogether  so ;  yet  Stacey  understood  the  distinction — under- 
stood it  emotionally.  His  heart  went  out  to  Monahan. 
They  were  kin. 

But  the  Irishman  continued  his  tale.  "'N'  then  I  said 
I'd  do  them  dirt,  'n'  I  done  it,  Captain.  There  was  a  strike 
among  the  boys  before  long,  'n'  'twas  me  more  than  any 
other  that  brought  it  about.  'N'  they  knew  'twas  me,  the 
dirty  packers !  but  never  a  thing  could  they  get  on  me.  'N' 


The  Lonely  Warrior  165 

th'  strike  cost  them  money — the  only  thing  that  hurts  a 
packer,  Captain.  Then  there  were  scabs  'n'  righting,  'n'  I 
couldn't  keep  out  of  it,  'n'  that  time  they  caught  me,  'n'  the 
judge — a  decent  sort  of  man  and  not  knowing  the  rights  of 
the  story  neither — give  me  a  month,  'n'  They  was  sore  be- 
cause They  couldn't  fix  it  so  I'd  get  five  years. 

"  'N'  that's  all,  Captain.  But  you  can  see  how  I  can't  go 
to  the  police,  quiet-like,  'n'  tell  them  th'  truth  about  Sun- 
day night." 

Stacey  saw.    He  meditated. 

"Well,  look  here !"  he  said  at  last.  "I  didn't  say  anything 
about  you  or  why  I  didn't  bring  you  in,  but  Traile"  (when 
he  spoke  to  Monahan  Stacey  did  not  say  "Lieutenant 
Traile")  "Traile,  though  he  didn't  know  your  name  was  on 
my  list,  happened  to  say  something  that  would  lead  the 
authorities  to  believe  you'd  left  town,  along  with  a  good 
many  others.  Why  don't  you  ?" 

"I  dunno,"  replied  the  Irishman  sullenly.  "I  didn't  like 
to  beat  it  as  if  I'd  really  been  one  of  them  skunks  that 
lynched  th'  mayor." 

"Did  you  have  money?    Because  I  can — " 

"Lord  bless  you,  yes,  Captain!"  the  man  interrupted. 
"The  boys  come  'n'  offered  me  all  I'd've  needed." 

Stacey  gazed  at  him.  "D'you  mean  that  our  boys  did 
that?"  he  demanded.  "Peters  and  Swanson  and  Petitvalte 
and  the  rest  of  them?" 

"Sure  they  did!" 

"Then,  damn  it  all!  they've  known  about  this  charge 
against  you  ever  since  I  got  them  together,  and  not  one  of 
them's  come  to  me  and  ,told  me !" 

Monahan  grinned.  "Sure  not,  Captain!"  he  replied. 
"They  done  what  you  told  them  to,  because  you're  you,  'n', 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  they're  enjoying  themselves  doing  it,  it 
not  being  what  you  might  call  strictly  according  to  rule.  But 


1 66  The  Lonely  Warrior 

they  didn't  any  of  them  come  'n'  lay  their  curly  heads  on 
your  breast  'n'  sob  out  their  own  little  troubles." 

Stacey  fumed,  then  got  over  it,  and  fell  into  thought. 
Here  were  these  men  who'd  go  to  hell  with  him — at  least, 
Burnham  had  said  they  would — yet  he  couldn't  get  at  them, 
not  really.  What  difficult  secret  souls  they  had !  He  sighed. 
Yet  somehow  he  was  proud  of  their  reserve. 

"Besides,"  Monahan  remarked,  as  a  final  shot,  "I  give 
them  orders  they  was  to  say  nothing  to  you  about  me." 

"Oh,  you  did!"  said  Stacey  drily.  "You've  been  giving 
too  many  orders.  It's  my  turn.  Now  listen  to  me,  you 
damned  red-headed  fire-brand!  To-morrow  afternoon  I'll 
try  to  see  General  Wood  and  I'll  tell  him  about  you.  He's 
a  square  man  and  white,  and  I  think  he'll  fix  the  thing  up. 
But,  just  in  case  he  shouldn't,  you'll  decamp,  beat  it,  quit 
this  lovely  city,  right  now.  And  you'll  take  money  from  me 
to  do  that.  (Confound  it!"  he  reflected,  "I'll  have  to  bor- 
row money  from  Traile  to  get  home  myself!)  And  you'll 
let  me  know  where  you  are,  but  not  till  to-morrow  night,  so 
that  7  won't  know  when  I  see  the  general." 

A  broad  grin  had  spread  over  Monahan's  face,  giving  it  an 
expression  of  gigantic  good  humor.  "Faith!  Captain,"  he 
drawled,  with  a  touch  of  brogue  in  his  intonation,  "as  an 
example  of  sacred  military  discipline  you're  in  a  class  by 
yourself,  you  are!  An  Irishman  you  are  at  heart,  Captain. 
And  it's  sorry  I  am  to  have  to  disobey  you.  But  I'd  feel 
fine,  wouldn't  I?  to  have  General  Wood  saying  sternly: 
'And  where  is  this  man,  Captain  Carroll  ?'  and  you  replying 
sweetly:  'I  gave  him  money  'n'  told  him  to  quit  the  town, 
General!'  No,  no,  Captain!  Right  here  will  I  sit  'n' 
wait  for  you  to  come  'n'  say:  'All  is  forgiven,  Jim  dear!' 
or  for  the  police  to  come  'n'  get  me." 

Stacey,  half  furious,  half  delighted,  capitulated.  "Oh, 
well,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you'll  go  out  and  get  something  to 


The  Lonely  Warrior  167 

eat  now  and  then."  He  rose  to  go,  then  paused.  "Look 
here !  You  told  me  about  all  this.  Why  couldn't  you  have 
told  Traile?"  he  asked  curiously.  "He's  a  good  sort  and 
he  knows  every  one  here.  He'd  have  cleared  things  up." 

But  the  expression  of  sullen  hostility  had  returned  to 
Monahan's  face.  "Traile's  decent  enough,  but  a  swell," 
he  growled. 

"Rot!  Traile's  father's  rich;  so's  mine.  No  difference 
at  all.  I'm  a  swell,  too,"  Stacey  observed,  almost  gaily. 

"You  can  call  yourself  names  at  your  pleasure,  Captain," 
said  Monahan,  "but  let  any  one  else  say  that  about  you  and 
I'll  break  his  head." 

Stacey  laughed  and  departed. 

He  and  Traile  found  more  zest  in  their  work  next  day. 
Not  being  fools,  they  accepted  Peters'  quiet  advice  that  all 
six  of  them  make  the  arrests  together.  Even  so,  they  had 
their  hands  full.  These,  thought  Stacey  grimly  more  than 
once,  were  the  men  they  were  after.  Four  they  took,  with 
difficulty,  in  the  attic  of  a  disreputable  boarding-house,  four 
in  a  brothel,  and  five  on  a  river  barge  after  a  running  fight 
during  which  Traile  got  a  knife  thrust  in  his  arm  and  Jack- 
son a  bullet  in  the  shoulder.  The  rest  they  picked  up 
separately  or  in  pairs.  But  by  five  in  the  afternoon  they 
had  got  them  all — all  twenty.  Tired  and  grimy,  Traile  with 
his  arm  in  a  sling,  they  reported  to  the  colonel. 

"Good  work,  gentlemen!  Good  work!"  he  said  soberly. 
"You  even  got  Voorhies?" 

"We  did,  sir,"  replied  Traile  quietly,  "but  with  two  bullets 
in  him,  which  the  captain  here  put  there  on  my  account. 
Two  of  our  men  are  hurt — Jackson  shot  in  the  shoulder — at 
the  hospital — will  be  all  right ;  Morgan  I'aid  out  with  a  brick 
— came  around  after  a  while — a  bit  groggy  now,  that's  all." 

"And  you,  Lieutenant  ?" 

"Nothing,  sir.    A  scratch.    Hardly  notice  it." 


1 68  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"You've  done  well.  I'll  let  the  general  know.  I  think  this 
ends  it.  You  can  retire  into  the  bosoms  of  your  families 
and  cease  calling  me  'sir' — always  a  strain  on  National  Army 
men,  I  observe.  Congratulations,  Captain  Carroll." 

"Thank  you,  Colonel,"  Stacey  replied.  "There  was  a 
favor  I  wanted  to  ask,  sir,"  he  added.  "Do  you  think  it 
would  be  possible  for  me  to  see  General  Wood  for  a  very 
few  minutes  ?" 

"I'll  find  out,"  said  the  colonel.  "I  feel  sure  he'll  be  glad 
to  see  you."  And  he  left  the  room. 

"Tell  you  all  about  it  when  I  come  out,  Traile,"  Stacey 
remarked  abstractedly,  thinking  over  what  words  he 
should  use. 

"This  way,  Captain,"  said  the  colonel,  returning  pres- 
ently. He  led  Stacey  down  a  hall  to  a  door  at  which  he 
knocked.  He  opened  it,  and  Stacey  went  through,  alone, 
into  the  room  beyond. 

It  was  a  large  office-room,  with  in  the  centre  a  desk,  at  the 
further  side  of  which  General  Wood  was  seated. 

Stacey  saluted  stiffly. 

But  the  general'  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  across  the 
desk.  "Come  in,  Captain  Carroll,"  he  said,  with  his  pleasant 
smile,  and  shook  Stacey's  hand.  "Sit  down.  I  see  you  wear 
the  D.  S.  C.  ribbon.  My  congratulations." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

The  general  considered  him.  "I'm  glad  you  asked  to  see 
me,  Captain,"  he  continued,  sitting  back  in  his  chair,  "be- 
cause Colonel  M has  just  told  me  of  the  extraor- 
dinary success  you  and  Lieutenant  Traile  have  had  in 
making  arrests.  I  have  an  entirely  unmilitary  curiosity  to 
know  how  you  did  it." 

"Oh,  well,  sir,"  said  Stacey,  "we  didn't  really  play  fair.  It 
happens  that,  though  I'm  not  from  Omaha,  twenty-two  of 
my  men  live  here.  I  organized  twenty  of  them,  sir,  and  had 


The  Lonely  Warrior  169 

sixteen  of  them  go  out  in  civilian  clothes  and  locate  the 
men  on  our  lists." 

The  general  stared,  then  began  to  smile.  Finally  he 
laughed — a  pleasant  kindly  laugh.  "Most  unmilitary,"  he 
remarked,  "but  efficient."  Suddenly  he  became  thoughtful. 
"And  your  men  were  willing  to  do  that  for  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"It's  unusual.    You  say  twenty  out  of  the  twenty-two?" 

"Yes,  sir.  One  of  the  other  two  is  in  bed  with  pneu- 
monia. It's  about  the  twenty-second  man  that  I  should  like 
to  speak  to  you,  sir." 

"Go  on." 

"His  name  is  Monahan,  sir,  a  wild  Irishman,  the  most 
difficult  man  I  ever  had  and  the  best.  He  was  on  my  second 
list  of  men  to  arrest." 

"Too  bad !    You  arrested  him  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

The  general's  face  grew  grave.  "Why  not  ?"  he  inquired 
sharply. 

"Because  he  is  totally  innocent,  sir,"  Stacey  returned 
steadily,  "but  couldn't  prove  it  in  court." 

"We'll  waive  for  a  moment  your  action  in  not  carrying 
out  orders.  How  do  you  know  he's  innocent?" 

"Because,  sir,  with  all  his  unruliness,  this  is  exactly  the 
sort  of  thing  he  couldn't  do.  And,  besides,  he  told  me  the 
real  story  himself.  He  wouldn't  lie  to  me." 

And  Stacey  very  swiftly  repeated  Monahan's  story.  As 
he  did  so,  he  watched  the  general's  face  closely.  A  little 
gleam,  Stacey  thought,  came  into  the  candid  blue  eyes  at 
the  mention  of  Monahan's  black-listing.  Leonard  Wood, 
too,  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  a  man  against  a  combination. 
When  Stacey  had  finished  the  general  made  some  hasty 
notes  on  a  scratch-block.  Then  he  looked  up  again. 

"I'm  glad  you  brought  this  matter  up  to  me,  Captain,"  he 


i7°  The  Lonely  Warrior 

said  soberly.  "I'll  see  to  it  that  the  charge  against  Monahan 
is  dismissed.  I  want  every  man  punished  who  was  impli- 
cated in  Sunday  night's  shameful  affair;  I  don't  want  any 
man  dragged  into  it  on  account  of  something  else  he  may 
have  done.  No  taking  advantage  of  this  to  settle  old  scores. 
However,"  he  concluded,  with  a  smile,  "you  can't  expect  me 
to  approve  officially  of  your  action,  can  you  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  sir,"  said  Stacey  cheerfully.    He  rose. 

But  the  general  detained  him.  "Captain,"  he  asked,  his 
mouth  twitching  slightly,  "when  you  were  in  the  service 
did  you  frequently  employ  your — er — admirable  spirit  of 
personal  initiative  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Stacey  calmly.    "Only  once." 

"And — excuse  my  curiosity ! — was  it  because  of  that  occa- 
sion that  you  received  your  decoration  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  quite  decidedly  not!"  answered  Stacey 
reproachfully. 

The  general  laughed  and  stood  up.  "Good-bye,  Captain 
Carroll,  and  thanks,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Stacey.     They  shook  hands. 

"Come  on,  Traile,"  he  said,  a  moment  later.  "Let's  drive 
like  the  devil  over  to  Monahan's  place — on  Dodge  Street  it 
is.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  on  the  way." 

But,  with  nothing  left  for  him  to  do,  apathy  descended  on 
Stacey.  Despite  Traile's  pleading  he  would  not  remain  after 
the  next  night,  when  he  took  a  late  train  for  Vernon.  He 
did  not  want  to  see  Traile  any  longer.  He  did  not  want  to 
see  any  one.  He  desired  only  to  get  away  from  this  city. 
But  he  did  not  for  a  moment  fancy  that  the  train  would 
carry  him  to  any  place  better  or  even  different.  All  life  was 
like  that.  You  travelled  and  travelled  and  got  nowhere. 
One  of  those  amusement  booths  where  you  sat  perfectly  still 
and  received  an  illusion  of  motion  from  a  painted  landscape 
rolled  swiftly  past  you. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IP  Stacey  had  been  at  all  curious  about  himself  he  would 
probably  have  thought  that  his  Omaha  adventure  had  left 
him  precisely  as  he  was  before.  He  might  only  have  been 
concerned  at  the  memory  of  the  sudden  ungovernable  pas- 
sion to  which  he  had  fallen  a  prey  on  the  night  of  the  lynch- 
ing. But  he  was  not  interested  in  himself,  even  faintly. 
Impressions  of  others  and,  especially,  impressions  of  things 
flowed  in  upon  him,  since  that  was  the  way  he  was  made, 
but  chaotically,  since  he  did  not  seek  them  or  try  consciously 
to  arrange  them.  He  was  apathetic  but  not  weary.  He  saw 
life  as  flashes  of  lightning  in  chaos.  Or,  no,  the  figure  was 
too  grandiose.  Sparks  travelling  with  haphazard  chain-like 
velocity  in  the  soot  of  a  chimney. 

There  was  a  wash-out  on  the  road,  and  Stacey's  train  was 
delayed  for  many  hours,  so  that  he  did  not  reach  Vernon 
until  late  in  the  afternoon.  He  hired  a  taxi  and  drove  home. 
It  was  the  fashionable  hour.  Vernon  had  certainly  become 
metropolitan  of  late  years.  The  streets  were  thronged,  and 
the  handsome  boulevard  into  which  the  taxi  presently  turned 
was  a  river  of  gleaming  motor  cars,  chauffeur  in  livery  on 
the  front  seat,  perfectly  gowned  women  in  the  tonneau. 
Smooth,  very!  The  mellow  October  coolness  in  the  air 
and  the  lights  that  began  to  shine  palely  against  the  sunset 
played  up  to  it.  People  waved  to  Stacey,  smiling  at  his 
plebeian  conveyance,  and  he  lifted  his  hat  abstractedly.  But 
at  heart  he  was  full  of  a  sick  distaste  for  all  this  elegance, 
this  physical  luxury,  that  seemed  to  him  not  so  much  to 
hide  as  to  reveal  what  lay  beneath — the  vulgarity,  the 
stupidity,  the  greed. 

171 


172  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Arrived  at  home,  he  bathed  and  dressed,  then  went  down 
to  the  library,  where  he  sipped  a  high-ball  moodily  and 
waited  for  his  father. 

Mr.  Carroll's  handsome  face  lighted  up  at  sight  of  his 
son.  "Well,  well,  this  is  fine!"  he  exclaimed.  "When  did 
you  get  back?  And  what  have  you  been  doing  in  that  dis- 
graceful place  all  this  time  ?" 

"Oh,  I  saw  the  riot,"  said  Stacey,  shaking  hands,  "and 
stayed  on  for  the  sequel.  May  I  get  you  a  high-ball, 
sir?" 

"No.  Come  into  the  dining-room.  I'll  mix  a  cocktail. 
Parker  will  have  had  the  ice  all  ready.  We  can  talk  at  the 
same  time." 

Stacey  watched  him  as  he  measured  out  the  gin  and 
vermouth. 

"Disgraceful,  the  whole  business !"  Mr.  Carroll'  went  on, 
emphasizing  his  words  by  a  vigorous  agitation  of  the  silver 
shaker.  "There's  never  been  a  time  in  the  history  of  this 
country  when  respect  for  law  and  order  was  at  so  low  an 
ebb."  He  poured  his  cocktail  into  a  glass  and  took  it  over 
to  the  table.  "Come  on,  son,"  he  said,  "sit  down.  Dinner 
will  be  served  in  a  few  minutes,  I  dare  say.  Sit  down  and 
tell  me  the  whole  story.  Your  health,  my  boy !" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Stacey,  obeying.  "But  there  isn't 
very  much  to  tell.  I'll  spare  you  details  of  the  lynching 
itself — they  were  in  all  your  papers,  of  course.  After  the 
riot  the  Legion  men  organized,  and,  as  I  happened  to  have 
my  uniform  with  me,  I  went  in  with  them  and  helped  arrest 
a  lot  of  the  people  implicated.  Young  Traile  and  I  worked 
together." 

Mr.  Carroll  sat  up  straight,  his  eyes  shining.    "You  did 
that?    Good  for  you,  Stacey !    Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Stacey  related  his  experiences,   stressing   details   which 
seemed  unimportant  to  himself,  such  as  his  and  the  lieuten- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  173 

ant's  adventures  in  making  the  arrests,  and  omitting  to  speak 
of  Monahan,  because  he  thought  his  father  would  not  ap- 
prove of  his  behavior  in  that  matter,  and  Stacey,  though  with 
a  sort  of  melancholy  absence  of  feeling,  wanted  to  be  agree- 
able to  his  father.  ,  Parker  had  served  the  soup,  but  Mr. 
Carroll,  though  he  prized  dinner  highly,  left  it  untouched 
until  Stacey  had  finished  speaking. 

"Good !"  he  cried  then,  "good !  I'm  proud  of  you.  But, 
hang  it!"  he  added  boyishly,  "how  adventures  do  dog  you 
about,  don't  they  ?  So  General  Wood  was  the  man  for  the 
job?  I  knew  he'd  prove  to  be." 

"Yes,"  said  Stacey. 

"A  good  man!"  remarked  Mr.  Carroll,  eating  his  soup 
now.  "I  hope  he'll  be  our  next  president." 

"Hope  so,  too,"  Stacey  assented. 

Mr.  Carroll's  face  was  radiant.  "Glad  you  feel  the  same 
way  about  it.  We've  had  enough  of  the  waste  and  radical- 
ism and  shilly-shallying  of  this  administration,"  he  asserted. 
"We  want  a  strong  safe  man  for  president,  representing  a 
decent  party.  General  Wood  fills  the  bill." 

"Oh,"  said  Stacey  thoughtlessly,  "I  don't  care  anything 
about  all  that.  One  party  seems  to  me  as  silly  as  the  other. 
I  only  want  General  Wood  to  be  elected  president  because  I 
suppose  he  wants  to  be  president  and  I'd  like  him  to  have 
whatever  he  wants." 

But  at  these  words  the  elation  had  vanished  from  Mr. 
Carroll's  face.  It  looked  grave  now  and  sad.  Stacey  bit  his 
lip.  Why  the  devil,  he  thought  angrily,  couldn't  he  have  kept 
his  mouth  shut?  He  didn't  seem  to  have  decent  control 
over  his  words. 

"I'm  sure  he'd  make  a  good  president,"  he  said  apolo- 
getically. 

But  they  could  neither  of  them  keep  off  from  subjects 
on  which  they  disagreed,  these  being  nearly  all  conceivable 


i?4  The  Lonely  Warrior 

subjects  except  their  unreasoning  mutual  affection,  which 
would  not  have  lent  itself  especially  well  to  conversation 
even  had  Mr.  Carroll  not  been  shy  and  Stacey  intensely 
reserved.  It  was  Mr.  Carroll's  turn  next. 

"All  that  business,  that  damnable  riot,"  he  said,  as  though 
involuntarily,  a  fanatical  gleam  in  his  eye,  "I  felt  sure  at 
the  time  that  there  was  Bolshevism  behind  it.  Did  you  see 
any  evidence  of  that?" 

"No,  sir,"  returned  Stacey  drily.  He  tried  to  keep  his 
tone  expressionless,  knowing  that  his  father  literally  couldn't 
help  making  the  remark — the  thing  was  an  obsession ;  but  he 
probably,  in  spite  of  himself,  revealed  the  disdain  his  father 
must  have  known  the  question  would  arouse  in  him.  The 
rest  of  the  dinner  passed  off  in  a  dreary  attempt  to  revive 
the  faded  cordiality. 

Afterward  they  went  into  the  living-room,  and  Stacey 
walked  restlessly  about. 

"A  game  of  pinochle,  son?"  Mr.  Carroll  suggested 
presently. 

"Thanks,  no,  sir.  I've  really  got  to  go  out  and  make 
a  call,"  Stacey  returned.  He  knew  he  was  being  cruel. 
There  was  a  faint  wistf ulness  about  his  father  that  touched 
Stacey  dully ;  but  he  simply  could  not  endure  the  repression 
he  must  exert  upon  himself  if  he  were  to  stay  there  and 
talk  with  his  father.  All  his  words  would  have  to  be 
studied,  never  casual.  He  was  incapable  of  it. 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Carroll.  "You've  been  away  a  week. 
Of  course  there  are  people  you  want  to  see.  I'll  read  a  little 
while,  then  go  up  to  bed.  Good  night." 

"Good  night,  sir,"  said  Stacey,  and  left  the  room. 

But  in  the  hall  outside  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and 
when  he  had  gone  to  the  garage  and  brought  out  his  car  he 
stopped  it  beside  the  house  and  returned  to  the  living-room. 
He  saw,  as  he  opened  the  door,  that  his  father  was  not 


The  Lonely  Warrior  175 

reading  but  playing  solitaire,  and  this,  too,  touched  Stacey  a 
little.  Mr.  Carroll  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"I'm  going  to  run  over  to  see  Phil  and  Catherine  Blair  for 
a  little  while,"  Stacey  said.  "They  don't  even  know  where 
I've  been,  and  I  ought  to  go.  It  occurred  to  me,  sir,  that 
just  possibly  you'd  like  to  drive  over  there  with  me.  Would 
you  care  to?" 

Stacey  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  his  father  would 
accept.  Mr.  Carroll  disliked  going  out  in  the  evening.  But, 
to  Stacey's  surprise,  he  dropped  his  cards  and  rose  at  once. 

"Why,  yes,  son,  I'll  be  glad  to  go  along,  if  you  really  want 
me,"  he  replied.  "I  like  your  friends,  the  Blairs,"  he  added, 
in  an  apologetic  tone,  when  he  and  Stacey  were  in  the  car. 
"Phil's  a  thoughtful  fellow,  with  talent,  too,  I  should  judge, 
though  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about  architecture. 
And  Catherine's  a  fine  girl,  an  unusual  girl." 

Again  Stacey  was  surprised. 

Phil  himself  opened  the  door,  a  look  of  warm  pleasure 
glowing  in  his  face.  "Well,  where  the  deuce  have  you  been, 
Stacey  ?"  he  cried.  "This  is  awfully  good  of  you,  Mr.  Car- 
roll! Come  in!  Come  in!"  And  he  ushered  them  into 
the  house. 

The  sitting-room  glowed,  too.  Light  from  a  shaded 
reading-lamp  fell'  on  Catherine's  hair  and  face,  illuminating 
the  fine  close-grained  skin  and  accentuating  the  firm  bony 
structure  beneath  it.  Catherine  was  sitting  in  a  low  easy 
chair,  over  the  arms  of  which  her  two  sons  leaned  closely  to 
gaze  down  at  the  large  book  that  lay  open  on  her  knees. 
She  rose  swiftly  at  sight  of  her  guests,  but  with  a  shy  grace. 
Her  hand  went  to  her  hair. 

As  for  the  two  boys,  they  dashed  at  Stacey  immediately. 

For  just  an  instant,  while  he  held  them  off,  he  considered 
the  scene  wistfully.  It  all'  seemed  so  far  from  any  mood  his 
tortured  inharmonious  spirit  was  able  to  achieve. 


176  The  Lonely  Warrior 

But  Catherine,  after  a  faint  smile  at  him,  was  shaking 
hands  with  his  father,  and  the  boys  were  growing 
importunate. 

"Come  on,  Uncle  Stacey!"  Carter  shouted.  "Do  'Fly 
away,  Jack !'  for  him !  Come  on !  Over  here !" 

"Carter !  Carter !"  said  his  mother.  "Not  so  loud !  And 
let  Uncle  Stacey  alone." 

"No,  but  he  wants  to  play,  don't  you,  Uncle  Stacey?" 
Carter  insisted,  moderating  his  voice,  however. 

"Sure!"  said  Stacey.  "Only  wouldn't  you — er — just  as 
lief  try  some  other  game  ?" 

"No.  Tly  away,  Jack !' "  the  boy  returned  firmly.  "I  do 
it  for  him  sometimes,  and  he  can't  ever  find  them.  Only," 
he  added  in  a  tremendous  whisper,  "they  come  off  kind 
of  often." 

Stacey  set  patiently  about  the  game.  In  a  way  it  was  a 
relief — like  knitting,  he  supposed.  But,  as  he  played  it,  he 
heard  his  father  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  proudly  telling 
Phil  and  Catherine  of  the  Omaha  adventure,  and  an  odd 
dream-like  sensation  came  over  Stacey  of  not  knowing 
which  was  real — this,  the  childish  game  with  the  boys,  or 
that,  the  story  his  father  was  repeating.  Neither,  perhaps. 

Phil  came  over  and  stood  near  him.  "A  sad  day  for  you 
that  you  introduced  that  game !"  he  remarked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  don't  mind  it,"  Stacey  returned. 
"  'Come  back,  Jack !  Come  back,  Jill !'  " 

("Did  I  really  introduce  it?"  he  thought  hazily.  "Was  it 
really  I  or  some  ancestor  of  mine?") 

"The  dreadful  monotony  of  it !"  Phil  added,  with  a  laugh. 

"That's  its  charm." 

"Enough !  That  will  do  now,"  said  Phil  presently.  "Up 
you  go,  boys !  To  bed !  Run !  Beat  it !" 

"Beat  it!    Beat  it!"  Jack  repeated  delightedly. 

"Mother  won't  let  me  say  'beat  it,'  "  Carter  remarked. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  177 

"Won't  she?    Well,  I  suppose  she'll  let  me  say  it." 

Carter  rushed  across  the  room.  "Mother!  Mother!"  he 
cried,  both  on  the  way  and  after  arrival,  "daddy  says  you'll 
let  him  say  'beat  it!'  Will  you?  Then  why  won't  you 
let  me?" 

"Sh !"  said  Catherine,  looking  a  little  dazed.  "Carter,  this 
is  Uncle  Stacey's  father.  What  will  he  think  of  you  if  you 
shout  that  way  ?" 

The  boy  shook  Mr.  Carroll's  extended  hand  politely. 
"But,  mother,"  he  repeated,  "daddy  said—" 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  tell  daddy  that  I  say  he's  a  great 
goose  and  that  geese  can  say  what  they  please,  I  suppose. 
Then  run  up  to  bed  and  see  if  you  can  help  Jack  undress 
nicely.  I'll  come  up  and  kiss  you  both  good  night  when 
you're  ready." 

The  boys  went — reluctantly,  with  dragging  steps,  but 
without  protest. 

However,  at  the  door  Carter  turned  and  ran  back,  his 
brother  following  like  a  faithful  dog. 

"I  guess  I  forgot  to  say  thank  you,  Uncle  Stacey,  for 
Jack  and  Jill,"  he  observed. 

"That's  all  right,  Carter,"  said  Stacey.  "  'Night !  Sleep 
tight!" 

"Don't  let  the  bed-bugs  bite!"  Carter  shouted  joyfully. 

"Carter!"  called  his  mother,  but  he  was  really  gone 
this  time. 

"Triumphant  exit,  wasn't  it?"  Phil  remarked.  "Come  out 
on  the  porch  with  me,  Stacey.  It  will  rest  you." 

They  went  out  and  walked  up  and  down  together.  There 
was  a  pleasant  coolness  in  the  air.  The  city  glittered  be- 
neath them. 

"Sorry  you  ran  into  all  that  mess  in  Omaha,"  Phil  said 
presently.  "Must  have  given  you  a  rotten  sense  of  discour- 
agement." He  waited,  as  though  for  a  reply,  but  Stacey 


178  The  Lonely  Warrior 

made  none.  "The  trouble  with  crowds  is,  I  suppose,"  he 
continued  thoughtfully,  "that  you  get  only  the  least  common 
denominator.  What  all  men  have  in  common  is  their  primi- 
tive passions.  It's  only  what  each  has  by  himself  that  counts 
to  his  credit.  Any  man  is  better  than  a  crowd."  He 
paused  again. 

"No  doubt,"  said  Stacey  dispassionately. 

Philip  Blair  ceased  walking,  leaned  back  against  the  rail- 
ing of  the  porch,  and  considered  Stacey,  with  a  smile.  "By 
the  way,"  he  remarked  irrelevantly,  "yesterday  I  got  a  state- 
ment of  receipts  and  disbursements  from  the  Fund  for 
Viennese  Children." 

Stacey  frowned.  "Oh,  you  did!"  he  said  drily.  "And 
how  did  you  happen  to  get  it  ?  I  can  guess." 

"Oh,"  Phil  returned  simply,  "Catherine  and  I  send  what 
we  can."  He  laughed  a  pleasant  laugh.  "You  hypocrite !" 
he  exclaimed.  "Oh,  you  damned  hypocrite !" 

Stacey  shook  his  head.  "It's  no  use  gunning  around  in  me 
for  virtue,  Phil,"  he  said  quietly.  "What  I  gave  them  hasn't 
at  all  the  meaning  of  what  you've  given  them,  whatever  that 
may  be.  I've  kept  out  two  hundred  a  month  for  myself." 

"Shucks !"  Phil  exclaimed  disgustedly.  "You're  becoming 
puerile,  Stacey !  Do  you  think  I  care  about  the  amount — if 
any — of  self-sacrifice  that  you  showed?  The  only  thing 
that  interests  me  is  that  you  were  interested  in  the  suffering 
of  Viennese  children." 

Stacey  gazed  away  absently  at  the  gleaming  city.  "I 
don't  see  anything  strange  about  that,"  he  said  finally. 
"There's  been  enough  suffering  in  the  world,  especially 
among  children.  You  think,  Phil,  that  I  have  some  malevo- 
lent philosophy  of  life.  You're  mistaken.  I  haven't  any 
philosophy.  It's  only  that  every  day  I  run  across  suffering 
— so  much  of  it — that's  caused  deliberately.  Then  I  get  a 
craving  to  destroy.  That's  all,"  he  concluded  listlessly. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  179 

"Not  so  much  deliberately  as  stupidly,"  Phil  murmured. 

But  Stacey  was  walking  up  and  down  again.  Presently 
he  paused  before  the  large  window  that  opened  into 
the  sitting-room.  He  gazed  in  at  Catherine  and  his 
father. 

Phil,  who  had  followed  Stacey  and  stood  now  at  his 
shoulder,  smiled.  "That  always  seems  to  me  an  unfair 
advantage  to  take  of  people,"  he  said,  "to  watch  them  when 
they  don't  know  you're  there — like  looking  at  them  in  their 
sleep.  No, — worse  than  that.  For  their  personality  is  one 
thing  when  it's  focussed  on  you,  quite  another  focussed  on 
some  one  else.  You're  not  meant  to  see  the  other.  It  con- 
tains no  adaptation  to  you." 

"That's  why  it's  a  relief,"  Stacey  returned.  "For  a  brief 
moment  you  get  the  sense  of  being  yourself  abolished,  and 
experience  peace." 

"H'm !"  said  Phil  reflectively.  "Also,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "I  dare  say  this  matter  of  personal  adaptation  to  the 
individual  accounts  for  the  emptiness  of  talk — and  thought 
— in  a  group.  The  adaptation  is  necessarily  lacking." 

Stacey  smiled  faintly.  "Always  thorough,  Phil,  aren't 
you?"  he  observed.  He  had  a  strange  shadowy  sense  of 
being  back  in  his  old  pre-war  relationship  to  Phil.  There 
was  pleasure  in  this  for  Stacey,  but  melancholy  also,  since 
he  knew  it  was  an  illusion.  He  continued  to  gaze  in  through 
the  window  at  his  father  and  Catherine. 

Mr.  Carroll  was  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  with  a  cer- 
tain courtliness,  and  smiling;  Catherine's  face  in  the  light 
from  the  electric  lamp  appeared  mobile  and  full  of  expres- 
sion. They  seemed  to  be  talking  freely. 

"I  never  saw  Catherine  so  bold  before,"  Stacey  remarked 
finally,  turning  away.  "I  swear  I'm  jealous." 

"Oh,"  Phil  returned  quietly,  "she's  always  shyer  with  you 
than  with  any  one  else." 


180  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Is  she?  That's  silly.  Now  what  do  you  suppose  they're 
talking  about?"  asked  Stacey  idly. 

Philip  Blair  smiled.    "You,  no  doubt." 

"Horrid  thought !    Come  on !     Let's  go  in." 

"We  were  watching  you  from  outside  the  window,"  he 
announced  maliciously,  as  they  reentered  the  room.  Cath- 
erine flushed.  "Phil  said—" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Stacey !"  Phil  interrupted.  "I  won't  have 
my  wife  teased.  By  the  way,  your  friend,  Mrs.  Latimer, 
has  been  here  a  number  of  times." 

Stacey  was  interested.  "You  like  her,  Catherine?"  he 
inquired. 

"Very  much,"  she  replied,  the  old  shyness  back  again, 
stronger  than  ever,  in  voice  and  face.  Perhaps  she  was 
vexed  with  it  and  struggled  against  it,  for :  "The  last  time 
she  came  she  brought  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Price,  with  her," 
Catherine  added,  then  bit  her  lip,  lest  she  should  have  said 
something  awkward. 

"Marian?"  Stacey  exclaimed.  But  he  was  not  perturbed. 
He  had  forgotten  Marian  completely  in  the  last  week.  He 
was  merely  surprised;  for  he  somehow  could  not  fancy 
Marian  and  Catherine  together. 

"Mrs.  Latimer  is  a  fine  woman,  with  an  affected  idiot  of 
a  husband,"  Mr.  Carroll  observed.  "Can't  say  I  care  much 
for  Marian." 

Stacey  smiled,  almost  imperceptibly.  What  a  straight- 
forward loyal  character  his  father  had,  he  thought.  Every- 
thing clear,  black-and-white.  And  never  more  kindly  than 
here  now  with  Phil  and  Catherine.  Stacey  had  a  feeling  of 
looking  at  his  father  from  a  long  way  off— or — or — at  the 
reflection  of  him  in  a  mirror.  What  an  odd  blurred  evening 
— and  pleasant!  He  fell  into  a  reverie  whil'e  the  others 
talked.  Why  should  there  be  this  wistfulness  about  his 
father?  Mr.  Carroll  had  a  strong  personality;  he  could 


The  Lonely  Warrior  181 

manage  men;  decisions  snapped,  clean-cut,  from  his  mind. 
Perhaps  he  was  wistful  because  he  had  no  grown-up  life 
outside  of  business.  His  ideas  on  general  subjects  were 
immature. 

But  before  long  Mr.  Carroll  rose.  "Come  on,  Stacey!" 
he  remarked.  "Phil  has  to  go  to  work  early  to-morrow,  and 
Catherine  must  be  tired,  too.  You  don't  mind  a  grandfather 
calling  you  by  your  first  name  ?"  he  asked  her,  with  a  pleas- 
ant smile. 

"  'Night,  Phil !"  said  Stacey  at  the  door,  and  shook  his 
friend's  hand  casually. 

"Nice  people,  very!"  his  father  observed,  after  they  had 
driven  for  some  minutes  in  silence.  "But  I  don't  think  Phil 
looks  well,  do  you?" 

"No  ?"  returned  Stacey,  surprised.  "I  thought  he  seemed 
gayer  to-night  than  for  a  long  while.  He's  always  been 
atrociously  thin,  you  know." 

But  the  strange  soft  sense  of  haziness  vanished  in  the 
night.  Next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Stacey  stood  1'ooking 
absently  out  of  his  study  window,  with  no  sense  but  of  a 
poignant  emptiness. 

Parker  came  up  after  a  time  to  say  that  Mrs.  Latimer  had 
called  to  see  him ;  but  even  at  this  Stacey  felt  nothing  save 
a  little  surprise. 

He  went  down  at  once  and  greeted  Mrs.  Latimer  pleas- 
antly. She  looked,  he  thought,  rather  worn,  faintly  older; 
but  he  said  to  himself  that  this  was  probably  the  effect  of 
the  cruel  morning  light.  Moreover,  as  soon  as  she  spoke  and 
smiled,  the  impression  vanished,  as  carelessly  as  it 
had  come. 

"Of  course  you  don't  want  to  see  me  or  you'd  have  come 
to  my  house,"  she  said,  "but  I  really  wanted  to  see  you,  so 
I  couldn't  resist  coming.  Silly,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  replied.    "An  excellent  idea.    What  the 


1 82  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Italians  call  geniale.  Piquant,  too,  with  just  a  touch  of 
impropriety  about  it,  since  if  we  had  been  of  the  same  age 
we'd  undoubtedly  have  married." 

He  was  merely  saying  words,  letting  them  say  themselves, 
but  Mrs.  Latimer  flushed  like  a  girl.  "Stacey!"  she  cried. 
"Shame  on  you !" 

"Come  on  up  to  my  study,  if  you  don't  mind  climbing 
the  stairs,"  he  suggested.  "That  will  make  it  still  worse." 

She  laughed,  and  they  went  up.  But  when  they  had  sat 
down  they  both  became  silent. 

"How's  Marian  and  the  new  menage?"  Stacey  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Latimer  gave  him  a  quick  curious  glance,  but  there 
was  nothing  except  polite  interest  in  his  face  and  tone.  Nor, 
indeed,  was  there  more  than  that  in  his  thoughts.  He  asked 
after  Marian  because  she  had  been  recalled  to  his  mind  the 
night  before  and  because  Mrs.  Latimer  was  her  mother. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "I  don't 
think  Marian  is  particularly  happy,  but  then  I  don't  think 
she  ever  was.  Marian  is  enigmatic  because  she  has  two 
such  different  sides  to  her  nature  that  neither  can  be  the 
truth  about  her.  And  what  that  truth  is,  I,  for  one,  have 
long  since  given  up  trying  to  discover.  Marian  seems  to  me 
to  drift,  rather  carelessly  and  recklessly,  as  though  she  were 
saying:  'What  does  it  matter?  It's  not  really  I  who  am 
drifting.' " 

Stacey  showed  some  interest  in  this.  "That's  rather  pro- 
found," he  observed  appreciatively.  "Hope  you  don't  do 
that  sort  of  thing  with  me." 

Mrs.  Latimer  smiled.  "I  have  to,"  she  remarked,  "since 
you  won't."  Again  there  was  a  silence.  "Stacey,"  she  said 
abruptly,  "I'm  so  very  sorry  you  happened  into  that  terrible 
affair  in  Omaha.  It  seems  to  me  sometimes  that  some  ugly 
fate  is  dogging  you,  to  single  out  everything  evil  and  say : 


The  Lonely  Warrior  183 

'Here !  Don't  overlook  this !  Here's  something  really  hor- 
rid!' It  isn't  fair!  It  simply  isn't  fair!"  she  concluded, 
almost  passionately. 

Stacey  raised  his  eyebrows.  "It's  awfully  good  of  you  to 
be  so  considerate  of  me,"  he  replied.  "I  appreciate  it." 
(And,  indeed,  he  tried  to.)  "Philip  Blair  said  the  same 
thing  last  evening — by  the  way,  I'm  very  glad  you've  taken 
to  going  around  there — but  really  there's  nothing  to  be  per- 
turbed about.  I'm  not  changed  by  Omaha.  This  was  no 
worse  than  a  thousand  things  I  saw,  almost  daily,  in  France. 
Worse?  It  was  nothing!"  Suddenly  his  face  twitched. 
"If  you'd  seen  my  friend,  Gryce,  die !"  He  drew  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  "Come!"  he  said.  "One  doesn't  talk 
of  things  like  that." 

Mrs.  Latimer's  face  had  looked  perplexed  and  doubtful 
at  Stacey's  initial  coolness ;  it  became  grave  again  and  affec- 
tionately apprehensive  now. 

"It  isn't,"  she  said  gently,  "that  anything  you  have  seen 
is  worse  than  what  you  saw  in  France.  It  is  only  the  per- 
sistent hammering  on  the  same  theme." 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  in  a  hard  voice,  "I  suppose  you  think 
I'm  being  steadily  turned  into  some  kind  of  red  revolu- 
tionary. Not  at  all !  Quite  the  opposite,  in  fact.  When  I 
see  what  there  is  in  men  beneath  the  crust  I'm  all  for  pre- 
serving the  crust — any  old  crust — the  one  we've  got,  even !" 

She  gazed  at  him  sadly.  "I  wish  you'd  go  away  for  a 
while,"  she  murmured. 

"Go  away  ?"  he  returned.  "I  can't  go  away  from  myself, 
can  I?  I'm  just  like  the  rest — with  a  crust." 

Suddenly  one  of  his  hot  unreasoning  rages  swept  over 
him,  like  a  physical  thing  climbing  from  his  feet  to  his  head. 

"It's  no  good  to  do  away  with  myself,"  he  said  in  an  odd 
resonant  voice,  but  not  loud.  "That's  too  little.  I'd  blow  up 
everything  with  myself — every  one — my  father  with  his 


184  The  Lonely  Warrior 

bigoted  prehistoric  ideas,  your  husband  with  his  petulant 
selfishness,  Marian,  stony  at  one  moment,  sentimentalizing 
prettily  over  a  rose-petal  the  next, — all  men,  all  women! 
And  rebuild  things?  Never!  Let  them  go  smash,  end, 
vanish,  and  leave  clean  empty  space !" 

She  trembled  before  his  fierceness,  but  shook  her  head 
courageously.  "No,"  she  said,  with  brave  obstinacy,  "you 
wouldn't." 

"Why  not  ?"  he  demanded  wildly.  "Do  you  think  I've  got 
any  pity  in  me?  Never  a  drop!"  The  hot  wave  of  anger 
passed  now,  leaving  in  Stacey  only  a  sick  feeling  of  en- 
hanced emptiness.  There  were  drops  of  sweat  on  his 
forehead. 

Again  Mrs.  Latimer  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  know  you 
haven't — not  at  present.  But  you  wouldn't  do  it  because 
you're  too  courageous.  You  wouldn't  give  up  in  that  way. 
In  spite  of  you,  your  strong  soul  will  insist  that,  bad  as 
everything  is,  you'll  see  what  can  be  done  with  it." 

"Why?"  he  asked  dully.  "It's  all  a  rotten  mess.  There's 
no  scheme — no  one — behind  it." 

"I  didn't  say  there  was,"  she  answered  steadily.  "I  only 
say  that  any  one  as  strong  as  you  must  make  a  scheme 
himself." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time. 

"Forgive  my  violence,"  said  Stacey  apologetically  at  last. 
"I  get  these  silly  fits  when  I  lose  my  self-control  once  in  a 
while.  Idleness,  they  come  from,  I  suppose.  Lack  of 
anything  to  do  to  work  off  energy." 

Feeling  genuinely  embarrassed,  he  had  not  been  looking 
at  Mrs.  Latimer  while  he  spoke.  Looking  at  her  now,  he 
was  amazed  to  note  the  sorrow  in  her  eyes. 

"Go  away,  Stacey!"  she  murmured.  "Go  away  for  a 
while.  I'm — afraid  for  you." 

"Go  away?"  he  repeated,  but  gently  this  time.     "Where 


The  Lonely  Warrior  185 

to?  Can  you  find  me  access  to  another  planet?  Neverthe- 
less," he  added,  "I  will  go  if  you  want  me  to.  Also  I  note 
that  the  pageant  season  is  on  now.  It  will  always  be  some- 
thing to  avoid  that.  What  is  it  this  time  ?" 

Mrs.  Latimer  laughed  hysterically.  "  'V-Vernon,  Past 
and — Present/  The — the  whole  story  of  Vernon." 

"Now  fancy!"  said  Stacey. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  occurred  to  Stacey,  however,  that  he  haTl  spent  more  than 
he  could  afford  lately  and  had  nothing  with  which  to  go  on 
his  travels.  And  this  seemed  an  excellent  excuse  for  re- 
maining at  home.  But  he  presently  recollected  that  on  one 
War  Christmas  his  father  had  made  him  a  gift  of  Liberty 
bonds.  He  sold  one,  with  a  sense  of  resignation.  He  did 
not  feel  irony  in  the  ease  with  which  he  could  solve  all 
financial  difficulties,  for  the  idea  of  personal  virtue, 
asceticism,  was  absent  from  his  mind.  He  was  sending  all 
that  money  to  Vienna  because  he  wanted  to  send  it,  not 
because  he  felt  he  ought  to ;  he  kept  out  two  hundred  dollars 
a  month  because  he  wanted  them ;  and  he  sold  a  thousand- 
dollar  bond  now  simply  because  if  he  was  to  go  on  a  journey 
he  needed  money. 

It  is  much  more  difficult  to  understand  why  he  was  going 
on  a  journey  at  all.  He  was  not  affectionate  enough  to  be 
going  simply  because  Mrs.  Latimer  had  asked  him  to.  And 
one  can  hardly  take  seriously  the  reason  he  gave  his 
sister,  Julie. 

He  drove  around  to  her  house  the  afternoon  before  his 
departure,  and  on  his  way  caught  sight  of  Irene  Loeffler 
walking  briskly  toward  him  and  signalling  violently.  He 
waved  his  hat,  but  dashed  by  her  in  a  burst  of  speed. 

"You  know,  Julie,"  he  said,  a  few  minutes  later,  sprawling 
on  the  davenport  in  his  sister's  living-room,  "it's  all  due 
to  you  that  I'm  going  away." 

"Tome!" 

"Absolutely !  You  lure  me  to  your  house,  and  then  you 

186 


The  Lonely  Warrior  187 

turn  an  unscrupulous  woman  loose  on  me,  and  she  makes  my 
life  unbearable,  and  I — " 

"Who?"  cried  Julie,  her  eyes  dancing. 

"Who?"  Stacey  returned.    "Who  but  Irene?" 

Julie  giggled.  "Wh-what  in  the  world  has  Irene  done 
to  you  ?"  she  demanded. 

He  sat  up  straight  and  gazed  at  his  sister.  "Jul-ia,"  ne 
said,  "you  know  me  to  be  modest,  you  know  how  little  I 
esteem  my  personal  charm,  caring  more  for  simple  things 
such  as  goodness  and — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  Julie  interrupted,  "I  know  all  that !  I  want  to 
hear  about  Irene." 

"Therefore,"  he  continued,  "when,  from  never  having 
seen  the  lady  at  all,  I  began  to  see  her  almost  daily,  and, 
when  I  didn't  see  her,  to  get  invitations  to  functions  given 
by  her  or  functions  at  which  she  was  to  be  present,  it  was 
long  before  I  suspected  purpose  in  all  this.  But,  Julie,  though 
modest  I  am  not  a  fool.  Things  have  now  reached  such  a 
point  that  I  cannot  take  a  walk  in  the  park  or  motor  any- 
where without  meeting  Irene.  And  I  tell  you  there  is  evil 
design  in  all  this,  and  I'm  going  away."  Julie  was  giggling 
increasingly.  "Only  five  minutes  ago  I  evaded  her — but 
not  for  long.  My  senses  are  growing  as  abnormally  acute 
as  those  of  Roderick  Usher  in  Poe's  story."  He  paused 
and  listened  apprehensively.  "And,  in  his  words,  'I  tell 
you  that  she  now  stands  without  the  door !' " 

At  this  moment  the  door  bell  did,  indeed,  ring.  Stacey 
sprang  up. 

"You  see?  Good-bye,  Julie!  I'm  going  out  the  back 
Way,"  he  concluded,  and  fled. 

As  for  Julie,  she  threw  herself  down  on  the  davenport 
and  laughed  helplessly,  in  which  position  Irene  presently 
'found  her. 

No  one  seeing  Stacey  with  his  sister  could  have  reconciled 


1 88  The  Lonely  Warrior 

him  with  the  Stacey  who  set  himself  against  society  and  flew 
into  passions  at  his  impotence  to  destroy.  Yet  there  was  no 
pose  in  his  attitude  toward  her.  Pose  demands  a  marked 
consciousness  of  self,  and  this  he  was  assuredly  without. 
He  behaved  in  that  way  because  he  felt  that  way  when  he 
was  with  Julie,  which  was  not  so  very  often ;  and  he  was 
obscurely  grateful  to  her  for  making  him  feel  so.  He  liked 
his  sister  better  than  in  the  old  days.  She  had  an  ingenuous 
manner  that  concealed  a  rich  sense  of  humor,  and  he  was 
inclined  to  think  that  this  was  characteristic  of  her  attitude 
toward  all  things,  that,  though  her  surface  simplicity  was 
unassumed,  beneath  it  lay,  not  indeed  a  deliberate  phil- 
osophy, but  a  mature  apprehension  of  life.  But  he  did  not 
waste  much  thought  on  analysis  of  Julie;  he  accepted  her 
as  a  pleasant  fact. 

Stacey,  then,  set  off  for  New  York  the  next  afternoon. 
Julie  was  at  the  train  to  bid  him  good-bye,  and  so  was  Jimmy 
Prout,  who  tossed  a  book  into  his  brother-in-law's  lap,  and 
sat  down  opposite  him.  Stacey  considered  Jimmy's  agree- 
able face.  Jimmy  did  no  one  any  harm;  on  the  contrary, 
he  did  people  good  by  being  such  a  companionable  person. 
Why,  thought  Stacey,  couldn't  he  be  like  Jimmy?  If  tur- 
bulence of  mind  solved  anything,  got  one  anywhere,  there 
would  be  something  to  say  for  it ;  since  it  didn't,  since  it  led 
only  to  impotent  fuming,  what  was  the  use  of  it?  But,  even 
at  the  moment  of  putting  the  question  to  himself,  Stacey  was 
disconsolately  aware  that  he  might  as  well  ask  what  was  the 
use  of  the  tides,  since  they  only  moved  back  and  forth. 

"You  know,  Stacey,"  Julie  was  saying,  "I'm  over  thirty, 
but  every  time  I  see  any  one  off  on  the  train  I  feel  thirteen. 
I  feel  a  positively  aching  desire  to  go  too." 

"Come  on  along,"  he  returned.  "Nobody  I'd  like  better 
to  have  with  me." 

That's  nice  of  you,  Stacey/*  she  said  gratefully.     "I 


The  Lonely  Warrior  189 

would.  I'd  come  just  this  way,  without  a  thing,  if  it  weren't 
for  Junior — he's  having  whooping-cough.  I've  always 
wanted  to  do  something  impetuous  like  that." 

"Have  you  now?"  asked  Stacey,  mildly  surprised. 

But  Julie,  who  was  sitting  next  the  window  of  her 
brother's  section,  suddenly  gasped  and  burst  into  laughter. 
"Oh,  Jimmy,  Stacey,  please,  please,  help  me  stop !"  she  cried, 
in  a  smothered  voice,  pressing  her  handkerchief  against  her 
mouth.  "Oh,  she  mustn't  see  me  in  this  state !" 

"Who  mustn't?"  demanded  her  husband. 

"I-Irene  Loeffler.  She — she's  come  to  see  Stacey  off," 
Julie  stammered  weakly.  "She'll1  be  in  the  car  in  a  moment. 
Oh,  dear!" 

Jimmy  laughed,  too,  and  Julie  made  a  tremendous  effort 
at  self-control,  as  Irene  strode  briskly  down  the  car  and 
paused  beside  them.  She  held  a  book  in  her  hand. 

"Hello !"  she  said  abruptly.    "Who's  going  away  ?" 

"I  am,"  and  "he  is,"  returned  Stacey  and  Jimmy,  who 
had  risen  politely. 

"That  so  ?    Where  you  going  ?    Sit  down !  Sit  down !" 

"New  York  first,"  Stacey  answered  cautiously. 

Irene  dropped  into  the  seat  beside  Jimmy  and  crossed 
her  legs.  "I  was  looking  for  Effie  Prince,"  she  remarked 
casually.  "Supposed  to  be  leaving  on  this  train.  Most 
likely  couldn't  get  her  trunks  packed  in  time.  Never  can. 
Here !  You  take  the  book  I  brought  for  her." 

"Thanks,"  said  Stacey.  "Then  you're  not  going  away? 
Sorry !  I  hoped  you  were  when  I  saw  you." 

The  girl  flushed  faintly  at  this,  but  her  embarrassment 
was  covered  by  Julie,  who  gave  a  desperate  choking  cough. 

"Here!"  said  her  husband  gravely.  "Take  another  pas- 
tille, Julie,"  and  he  drew  a  box  from  his  pocket.  "It's  that 
kid  of  ours,"  he  explained.  "Given  her  whooping-cough — 
not  a  doubt  of  it.  You'll  both  have  it  now,  probably." 


i9°  The  Lonely  Warrior 

But  the  conductor  was  calling  "All  Aboard,"  and  the  three 
departed  hastily,  Irene  giving  Stacey  a  mannish  grip  of 
the  hand. 

Stacey  waved  at  them  through  the  window,  then  stretched 
out  in  his  seat  and  picked  up  Irene's  book.  He  laughed 
suddenly.  It  was  "Les  Chansons  de  Bilitis." 

It  was,  anyway,  an  amusing  departure,  and  Stacey  felt  in 
quite  a  good  humor. 

But  it  was  not  a  prelude  to  an  amusing  trip.  Stacey  wan- 
dered from  city  to  city  drearily.  Except  for  being  larger, 
they  were  no  worse  than  Vernon;  if  they  had  been,  they 
might  have  seemed  less  unbearable.  They  were  merely 
empty — one  after  the  other;  empty  places  inhabited  by 
empty  people.  New  York  sickened  him.  It  wallowed  in 
wealth,  dazzled  the  eyes  with  it ;  rugs,  imported  motor  cars, 
china,  lights,  theatres,  food,  more  food, — there  was  an  ab- 
sorbed attempt  to  minister  to  every  demand  of  the  most 
exacting  body,  with,  so  far  as  Stacey  could  see,  not  a  thought 
behind  it  all.  The  "Follies"  were  typical — gorgeous  color, 
selected  girls,  riot  of  noise — not  a  word  spoken  that  could 
reach  beyond  the  intelligence  of  a  sub-normal  child.  Stacey 
yawned  through  the  show,  to  the  justifiable  annoyance  of  his 
companion,  an  old  college  friend,  who  had  paid  God  knew 
what  for  the  tickets.  A  hundred  magazines  stared  at  Stacey 
from  the  subway  book-stalls,  with  a  hundred  pictures  of 
sweet  American  girls  on  their  covers,  and  who  could  tell  how 
many  hundred  itories  of  thwarted  Bolshevik  plots  among 
the  advertisements  inside  ? 

Stagey  fled  to  Philadelphia,  thence  to  Baltimore,  then  up 
to  Boston.  He  went  to  dinners  and  dances  and  dinner- 
dances  in  one  place  and  another.  Debutantes  a  little 
nakeder  and  bolder  than  he  remembered  them  in  past  years. 
Quite  in  keeping  with  everything  else.  The  whole  country 
singing  one  vast  jazz  song  of  praise  to  the  body,  sole  pre- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  191! 

occupation  how  to  gratify  every  instinct  it  possessed.  It 
was  callousness  carried'  further  than  was  credible,  since 
across  the  ocean  were  thousands  who,  too,  were  thinking 
only  about  their  bodies — perforce,  being  unable  to  get  suffi-« 
cient  food  and  clothes  to  keep  them  alive. 

He  gazed  at  it  all'  with  bitter  aloofness.  What  could  he 
do  about  it?  What  could  any  one  do  about  a  world  like 
this?  There  was  a  desolate  emptiness  in  his  heart  that  in- 
hibited even  rage.  He  longed  for  annihilation,  the  absolute 
eternal  extinction  of  self.  He  had  certainly  altered  in  these 
last  months.  Even  he,  who  tried  not  to  think  of  himself, 
could  not  help  perceiving  this.  His  reactions  were  more 
jerky,  disconnected  with  any  former  reactions,  incoherent. 
He  was  not  a  strong  scornful  soul1,  detached  and  looking  at 
everything  in  one  manner;  he  was  a  series  of  sterile  unre- 
lated emotions,  with  the  only  continuous  theme  that  ran 
through  them  all,  disgust. 

He  gave  it  up  at  last  and  returned  to  Vernon — why,  he 
could  not  have  explained.  He  wrote  no  one  that  he  was 
coming. 

It  was  a  morning  in  early  December  when  he  got  back. 
Snow  was  thick  on  the  city.  The  taxi  that  Stacey  hired 
splashed  through  slush  in  the  centre  of  town  and  slewed 
madly,  despite  its  chains,  on  the  boulevard  leading  to  the 
Carroll'  house. 

Stacey  flung  himself  on  the  couch  in  his  study  and  pres- 
ently fell  asleep.  He  did.  not  wake  until  Parker  knocked  at 
the  door  to  call  him  to  luncheon.  Two  hours  of  uncon- 
sciousness. Well,  that  was  so  much  gained,  anyway. 

He  spent  as  many  hours  of  the  afternoon  as  he  could  in 
bathing  and  dressing,  then  at  last  left  the  house  and  tramped 
away  through  the  snow.  He  had  no  objective  in  mind,  but 
after  a  while,  finding  himself  near  Philip  Blair's  house,  went 
up  the  steps  to  it  and  rang  the  bell. 


192  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Catherine  opened  the  door.  At  first  he  thought  that  she 
looked  wan  and  tired ;  but  she  smiled  with  pleasure  at  sight 
of  him,  and  the  impression  vanished. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  you're  back,  Stacey,"  she  said.  "Phil 
was  saying  last  night  that  it  seemed  years  you'd  been  away. 
Come  in.  Marian — Mrs.  Price — is  here." 

He  felt  the  faintest  touch  of  surprise, — no  more,  for  he 
was  almost  done  with  correlating  facts.  His  mind  no  longer 
worked  that  way.  He  was  rapidly  growing  unabl'e  to  see 
people  in  relation  to  one  another,  and  so  to  find  one  relation 
natural,  another  curious.  Unity  was  beginning  to  desert 
his  impressions.  Each  of  them  seemed  to  come  separately. 

Thus  he  was  scarcely  at  all  surprised  when,  at  sight  of 
Marian,  whom  he  had  nearly  forgotten,  his  old  passion  for 
her  leaped  up  like  sudden  flame.  He  shook  her  hand,  with 
a  word  or  two  of  casual  greeting,  but  his  eyes  met  hers 
electrically.  He  made  no  effort  to  combat  the  sensation.  If 
anything,  he  was  grateful'  for  it.  And  the  antagonism,  as 
strong  as  the  attraction,  that  formerly  she  had  aroused  in 
him,  was  absent,  since  he  was  living  in  the  isolated  moment. 

Marian  was  lovely,  he  thought,  sick  with  an  unrecognized 
desire  for  loveliness.  She  wore  a  toque  of  white  fur  that 
fitted  close  to  her  small  head,  and  there  were  white  furs 
over  her  shoulders.  She  was  a  little  thinner  than  before 
her  marriage,  and  her  delicate  features  were  as  clear  and 
fine  as  those  of  a  silver  goddess  on  some  Syracusan  coin. 

They  all1  three  sat  down  and  talked,  somehow. 
"Well,  where  have  you  been  this  time,  Stacey?"  Marian 
asked  gaily.     "Fighting  more  dragons?     Doing  dozens  of 
herculean  tasks — Augean  stables,  hydras,  taking  Atlas'  place 
for  a  time  ?"    She  gave  him  a  malicious  smile. 

Clearly  Marian  was  as  hostile  as  ever.  No  matter !  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  instinctively  glad  of  her  hostility.  It 
revealed  warmth. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  193 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  Catherine  who  flushed  at  it.  Stacey 
noted  the  flush  with  surprise.  Oh,  well,  everything  was 
odd!  There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  clear  it  up.  It  was 
also  incomprehensible  that,  feeling  as  he  was  feeling  toward 
Marian,  he  should  not  impatiently  desire  to  have  Catherine 
go  away  and  leave  them  together.  Yet  he  desired  nothing 
of  the  sort. 

"No,"  he  replied  peaceably  to  Marian,  "I've  merely  been 
boring  myself  to  extinction  in  a  stupid  world.  Any  time 
that  Atlas  wants  to  let  the  sky  fall  on  it  he  may,  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  But,"  he  added,  "it's  gratifying  to  have 
you  make  all  your  metaphors  Greek,  Marian." 

She  bit  her  lip  at  this,  and  her  eyes  shone  dangerously 
for  an  instant.  But  presently  she  smiled  again. 

Stacey  turned  to  Catherine.  "How  are  all  of  you?"  he 
inquired. 

"Not  very  brilliant,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  a  trifle  wearily. 
"We've  all  got  colds — all  except  Carter,  who's  still  at  school 
now.  I've  got  a  cold,  Phil's  got  a  bad  cold,  and  Jackie's  got 
a  horrid  cold." 

"Poor  old  chap!    Where  is  he?" 

"Upstairs.  You  can  hear  him  cough  regularly  every 
thirty-two  seconds.  I  timed  him  last  night."  She  made  a 
brave  attempt  to  pass  it  off  lightly.  But  Stacey  perceived 
that  she  was  worn  out,  and  felt  sorry  for  her. 

"Can't  I  go  up  and  sit  with  him  and  let  you  rest?"  he 
asked.  He  was  quite  sincere  in  the  demand,  too ;  which  was 
as  strange  as  everything  else,  since  his  passion  for  Marian 
was  bubbling  in  his  veins  like  a  Circean  draft. 

"No — thank  you,"  said  Catherine,  with  a  rare  beautiful 
smile.  "He's  asleep  now.  I'll  go  up  when  he  wakes.  I'm 
afraid,"  she  went  on,  with  involuntary  formality,  and  turn- 
ing to  Marian,  "that  I  don't  seem  very  cordial.  Really  I'm 
glad  you  came — both  of  you." 


194  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Truly?"  asked  Marian  prettily.  "Then  I'll  stay  a  few 
minutes  longer.  I  was  afraid  I  might  be  tiring  you." 

Stacey  considered  her.  He  felt  that  she  was  hard  beneath 
her  beauty.  She  was  not  pitiful'.  She  was  not  interested  in 
sickness.  It  annoyed  her.  Yet  this  judgment  made  not  the 
slightest  difference  in  what  he  was  feeling  toward  her.  The 
only  thing  that  affected  him  was  his  perception  that  she  was 
somehow  tense,  and  that  she  was  staying  for  him.  This 
stirred  him. 

A  strange  trio — even  Stacey  could  feel  that;  yet  they 
managed  to  talk  with  apparent  ease — of  Vernon,  New  York, 
the  weather, — anything.  What  a  thing  training  was ! 

But  a  small  pathetic  whine  came  from  upstairs.  Catherine 
rose  hastily.  "It's  Jackie,"  she  explained.  "You'll  ex- 
cuse me  for  a  few  minutes,  won't  you  ?" 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  ?"  Marian  asked. 

"No,  please !  I'll  give  him  his  medicine  and  get  him  to 
sleep  again  and  be  back  down  presently." 

"Not  a  thing  I  can  do  ?    You're  sure  ?    Stacey  begged. 

"No,  truly,  thank  you,"  Catherine  replied,  and  hur- 
ried out. 

Neither  Stacey  nor  Marian  moved,  but  their  eyes  met 
instantly.  They  gazed  at  each  other  in  silence.  Stacey's 
heart  beat  heavily ;  he  could  feel  the  throb  of  it  chokingly  in 
his  throat.  Marian's  eyes  were  inscrutable,  but  her  lips  were 
shut  closely  in  an  expression  of  sullen  anger. 

At  last  he  leaned  forward.    "Marian !"  he  said. 

She  did  not  reply,  but  her  fine  nostrils  dilated  slightly. 
There  was  another  moment  of  silence. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  demanded  brusquely. 

"No !"  The  monosyllable  seemed  to  spring  forth  without 
her  volition.  "You  know  I'm  not,  Stacey  Carroll,"  she 
added  presently,  with  concentrated  bitterness.  "Why  do 
you  want  to  insult  me?" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  195 

"I — don't!"  he  replied,  a  sudden  touch  of  pity  softening 
his  passion. 

They  were,  in  some  strange,  partial,  imperfect  manner, 
made  for  each  other;  for  they  caught  each  other's  emotions 
unerringly.  The  hostility  went  out  of  Marian's  face. 

"I  coul'dn't  have  believed,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "that 
any  one  could  be  so  unbearably  stupid  as  Ames  is,  hour 
after  hour,  day  after  day."  Hatred  flared  up  again  in  her 
eyes — but  not  hatred  of  Stacey  this  time,  he  knew.  "And — 
brutal !"  she  added,  between  her  teeth. 

Stacey  could  follow  her  thoughts  as  clearly  as  though  they 
had  been  small  distorted  goblins  leaping  up  and  vanishing 
in  the  air.  The  cult  of  her  body, — Marian  had  always  had 
it,  refined  upon  it  fastidiously.  Not  at  all  vain,  she  had 
been  aloofly  physically  proud.  What  she  had  felt  for  her 
own  body  was  precisely  what  her  father  felt  for  his  Chinese 
vases.  And  now  she  had  had  to  turn  this  one  cherished 
possession  over  to  a  new  and  despised  master.  Stacey 
caught  it  all,  not  through  such  analysis,  but  in  a  swift  intu- 
itive glimpse.  He  writhed.  "It's  all  your  fault,  yours!" 
her  eyes  seemed  to  say  to  him.  He  sprang  up. 

"Marian !"  he  cried,  and  strode  across  to  her  chair. 

But  she  had  risen,  too,  and  her  arms  were  about  his  neck 
almost  as  soon  as  his  own  encircled  her.  She  lifted  her  lips 
to  his  with  a  long  tremulous  sigh.  A  flood  of  passion  sub- 
merged them.  When  he  released  her  she  tottered,  shaking, 
and  clung  to  the  back  of  the  chair.  He  had  never  seen  her 
so  moved — he  could  think  this  even  while  his  own  heart 
bounded.  Her  face  was  glowing,  transfigured  and  beautiful 
—oh,  beautiful ! 

"Ames — will  not — be — home — to-night!"  she  stammered. 

He  nodded,  dizzily,  holding  her  hands  so  tight  that  he 
must  have  hurt  them  cruelly. 

He  was  reckless.     Nothing,  not  the  faintest  bond,  held 


196  The  Lonely  Warrior 

him  back.  He  wanted  Marian  and  would  have  her.  As  for 
Ames's  absence  from  home,  it  was  negligible.  He  did  not 
care  a  rap  that  Ames  was  away,  either  on  his  own  account 
or  because  of  Marian's  reputation ;  or  for  any  other  reason. 
He  would  follow  this  instinct,  this  desire.  But  the  truth 
about  Stacey  is  deeper.  He  would  now  have  followed 
equally  any  desire — a  desire  to  commit  murder,  for  example. 

He  gazed  at  the  girl,  then  slowly  drew  her  to  him  again, 
but  more  gently  this  time,  till  his  cheek  pressed  her  hot  cheek 
and  his  nostrils  inhaled  the  fragrance  of  her  curly  hair. 

"Oh,  Stacey,  if — if  Catherine — were  to  come  in!"  she 
murmured. 

And  at  that  moment  Catherine  did  come  in.  She  started. 
Her  hand  went  to  her  heart.  Then  she  stood  there  in  the 
doorway,  silent,  motionless,  not  accusing,  only  like  a  somber 
intruder  on  a  tragedy.  It  is  astounding,  but  the  truth,  that 
even  at  such  a  moment  Stacey  could  receive  from  Catherine 
an  impression  of  something  fate-like,  goddess-like,  more 
than  human,  a  sense  of  bigness.  Again  the  unrelated  char- 
acter of  his  impressions. 

But  Marian,  who  had  torn  herself  away  from  Stacey, 
gasped,  then  gave  a  little  hysterical  laugh,  and  fled  from  the 
house  without  a  word,  gathering  her  trailing  white  fur 
swiftly  about  her  throat. 

Stacey  was  unmoved,  except  in  the  way  the  subsiding  sea 
is  moved  when  a  storm  is  past.  He  stood  looking  squarely 
at  Catherine,  a  twisted  ironical  smile  on  his  lips,  his  eyes 
cool  and  challenging. 

"Well?"  he  said  finally. 

Catherine  sank  down  in  the  chair  where  Marian  had  sat, 
and  leaned  forward,  folding  her  hands  above  her  knees. 
Her  dark  eyes  did  not  leave  his.  He  saw  that  for  the  first 
time  in  their  relationship  all  shyness  had  slipped  from  her. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  197 

There  was  something  magnificent  about  her,  he  thought, 
now  that  he  really  saw  her  unveiled. 

"Oh,  Stacey,  don't !  don't !"  she  said  at  last. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  with  polite  detachment.  "Sanctity 
of  the  marriage  relation?"  She  shook  her  head.  "What 
then?  Moral  discipline  of  self -denial'?  Regard  for  Ames 
Price — Vernon's  third-best  golf  player?  Or  concern  for 
Marian?  You  needn't  worry  about  Marian.  She'll  never 
feel  remorse,  and  no  more  shall  I.  Come,  Catherine,  you're 
not  communicative !" 

"You — you  know  I  can't  talk  readily,"  she  said.  "But,  oh, 
Stacey,  don't!  please  don't!  I'm  not  speaking  to  you  with 
reasons — only  from  my  heart." 

"No,"  he  returned  grimly,  "you're  speaking  with  all  the 
massed  tradition  heaped  up  under  the  impression  that 
through  it  some  purpose  can  be  followed.  All  a  mistake,  I 
tell  you!" 

"No !  No !"  she  cried,  her  grave  face  alight  with  expres- 
sion. "I'm  not!"  Suddenly  her  eyes  grew  pitiful.  "Oh, 
Stacey,"  she  said,  "you  poor  hurt  child!  Do  you  want  to 
hurt  yourself  more?" 

At  this  his  calm  was  shaken.  A  dull  resentment  stirred 
in  him, — but  not  because  he  was  vain,  or  even  proud. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  because  I — some  one 
else  that  I  used  to  be — felt  in  such  and  such  a  way  about 
Marian,  you  would  not  have  me  trample  on  those  old  illu- 
sions, for  fear  of  pain.  Catherine,  I  do  not  give  that  for 
my  illusions !" 

"Oh,  nor  I,  either,  Stacey!  'Don't*  is  all  I  can  say.  In 
your  heart  you  know  I'm  right." 

"I  do  not !"  he  burst  out.    He  was  angry  now. 

But  she  nodded  her  head.  "You  do,"  she  repeated.  "Ah, 
dear  Stacey,  think!  You're  hard  and  bitter — or  you  think 


198  The  Lonely  Warrior 

you  are — really  you're  only  hurt" — (he  winced) — "but  the 
one  impulse  you  have  is  to  look  at  things  squarely,  and  to 
be  one  who  can  look  at  them  so.  Will  you,  then,  do — do—- 
crooked things,  have  a  secret  back-stairs  liaison,  hide  be- 
hind— corners,  meet  Marian  in  the  dark,  with  whispers? 
Oh,  you  mustn't !" 

The  thrust  went  deep.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
restlessly,  his  heart  full  of  anger  and  pain.  Finally  he 
turned  on  her. 

"I'll  do  what  I  please !"  he  cried.  "Who  are  you  to  preach 
to  me  like  this  ?  What  are  you  in  my  life  ?  Nothing !" 

But  at  this  she  started,  then  buried  her  head  in  her  hands 
and  wept.  And  when  he  saw  that  he  had  hurt  her,  as  he  had 
intended,  he  was  shocked. 

However,  she  lifted  her  head,  unashamed,  almost  at  once. 
"Forgive  me!"  she  said  simply.  "Who  am  I?  Who  are 
we  ?  We — Phil  and  I — love  you.  That's  the  only  power  we 
have  over  you." 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  helplessly  and  remorse- 
fully. "I'll  do  as  you  say,"  he  said  dully.  But,  with  his 
surrender,  anger  rushed  upon  him  again  furiously.  "Only," 
he  added,  trembling  with  rage,  "  I'll  tell  you  that  you  and 
Phil  are  impossible !  You're  too  good !  Abominably  good ! 
It's  sickening !  Leave  me  alone  now,  both  of  you !" 

He  snatched  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  hurried  out  of 
the  house. 


CHAPTER  XV 

STAGEY  plunged  blindly  down  the  hill,  in  an  insane  fury  of 
rage  and  thwarted  passion.  His  mind  was  a  hot  swirling 
confusion  which  he  made  no  attempt  to  clarify.  But  in  the 
welter  two  things  remained  firm — his  will  to  go  to  Marian's 
house  to-night,  his  will  not  to  go.  These  were  two  equal 
warring  forces.  Their  conflict  churned  up  anger — anger 
with  Catherine,  anger  with  himself  for  having  inexplicably 
yielded  to  Catherine. 

Under  foot  were  wet  snow  and  ice.  Stacey  slipped  again 
and  again.  But  he  tore  on,  as  though  there  were  some 
definite  place  he  must  get  to,  though,  indeed,  had  he  been 
capable  of  reflection,  he  would  have  perceived  the  reverse 
to  be  true. 

He  reached  the  boulevard  and  turned  into  it,  ploughing 
along  at  a  tremendous  pace  in  the  direction  of  his  home. 
But  presently  some  small  capacity  for  thought  did  return  to 
him,  and  he  became  aware  that  he  most  certainly  did  not 
want  to  go  home.  He  began  to  walk  less  rapidly,  and  at 
last  stopped  altogether,  bewildered,  and  looked  about  him, 
not  knowing  what  to  do. 

It  was  only  five  o'clock,  but  the  early  winter  dusk  was 
already  darkening  the  air,  and  Tights  were  beginning  to  shine 
out  in  the  windows  of  houses.  Stacey  stood  beneath  one  of 
the  brilliant  clusters  of  electric  globes  with  which  the  city 
government  had  adorned  the  boulevard,  and  stared  in  front 
of  him.  But  he  was  not  really  reflecting;  his  mind  was 
simply  at  a  deadlock  between  the  two  opposing  forces  that 
usurped  it.  Some  new  factor,  however  slight,  must  inter- 
vene before  he  could  act. 

199 


200  The  Lonely  Warrior 

The  factor  revealed  itself  externally  as  a  high-powered 
racing  car,  which  drew  up,  throbbing,  at  the  curb,  with  a 
grinding  of  suddenly  applied  brakes  and  a  spatter  of  slush. 

"Hello,  Carroll !"  called  the  young  man  who  was  driving 
it.  "Pretty  nasty  under  foot.  Can  I  give  you  a  lift?"  He 
reached  over  and  flung  open  the  door  of  the  car. 

Stacey  looked  up,  with  a  start.  His  mind  cleared  swiftly. 
The  pause  before  he  was  able  to  reply  was  hardly  per- 
ceptible. "Oh,  hello,  Whittaker !"  he  said,  in  quite  a  natural 
voice.  "Thanks."  He  rested  one  foot  on  the  step  of  the  car 
and  frowned.  "The  only  thing  is  that  I  don't  know  where  I 
want  to  go.  I  was  just  trying  to  make  up  my  mind." 

The  young  man  at  the  wheel  laughed.  He  was  a  big 
fellow,  appearing  still  bigger  because  of  the  enormous  fur 
coat  he  wore,  and  had  a  ruddy  face,  with  pleasant  eyes  and 
a  hard  mouth.  He  looked  like  a  commercial  traveller  come 
into  a  fortune.  "Well,"  he  said,  "that  does  make  it  a  bit 
difficult,  don't  it?  Anyhow,  hop  in!  You  certainly  don't 
want  to  stick  around  where  you  are." 

Stacey  obeyed,  slamming  the  door  after  him,  and  sat  down 
beside  Whittaker,  who  started  the  car  off  slowly  along 
the  boulevard. 

The  young  man  was  of  the  type  known  in  current  slang 
as  "hard  boiled."  This  quality,  however,  was  not  the  result 
of  his  service  in  France — he  had  been  a  lieutenant  of  in- 
fantry in  a  different  division  from  Stacey 's.  The  war  had 
not  had  the  slightest  effect  on  Whittaker.  He  had  always 
been  "hard  boiled,"  even  before  the  term  existed. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  home,"  Stacey  explained.  "Fed  up 
with  home.  Where  you  going?  Can't  you  take  me  along?" 

The  other  laughed  again.  "Sure !  I  can,  but  you  wouldn't 
go.  Too  much  of  a  high-minded  puritan.  Why,  you 
wouldn't  even  end  up  that  dinner  we  had  in  Paris  in  any 


The  Lonely  Warrior  201 

decent  way!  I'm  going  out  to  Bell's  at  Clarefield  for  the 
night." 

"All  right,"  said  Stacey,  "so  will  I,  if  you'll  take  me." 

"Well,  well,  the  sky  has  fallen!  My  last  illusion's  gone! 
War,  thy  name  is  corruption!"  Whittaker  exclaimed. 
"Sure !  Glad  to  have  you !"  he  added  genially.  "Now  let's 
figure  it  out.  I've  got  a  little  girl  I'm  going  to  take  along. 
We  can  squeeze  you  in  all  right — all  the  cosier,  what?  But 
you'd  better  go  and  dig  up  some  one  yourself  and  get 
your  car." 

Stacey  shook  his  head.  "No,  I'll  ride  with  you — if  I 
won't  be  butting  in.  Maybe  I'll  find  some  one  out  there." 

"Maybe,"  the  other  returned  dubiously.  "But  everybody 
will  be  pretty  much  paired  off." 

"Drive  around  to  my  house  and  we'll  have  a  drink  while 
I  get  a  few  things  together." 

"All  right."    The  car  leaped  forward. 

In  Stacey's  mind  the  will  to  have  Marian,  the  will  not  to 
have  her,  and  the  anger  persisted,  but  underneath.  Above, 
as  the  active  part,  was  the  matter  of  this  trivial  escapade. 
His  dissent  from  Whittaker's  suggestion  that  he  get  his  own 
car  and  bring  another  young  lady  was  not  due  to  distaste — 
nothing  so  fastidious  as  that  could  get  a  hearing  now — but 
to  Stacey's  positive  fear  of  being  1'eft  alone.  If  he  were  left 
to  himself,  nothing,  as  night  fell  and  his  longing  deepened, 
could  prevent  his  going  to  Marian.  He  must  be  prevented. 

"Parker,"  he  said  to  the  man  who  took  Whittaker's  snowy 
fur  coat  in  the  hall,  "I'm  going  away  again  for  a  day  or 
two.  You'll  tell  Mr.  Carroll  when  he  gets  in.  First,  please 
get  us  some  whiskey  and  a  siphon — Scotch,  Whittaker?" 

"Sounds  good." 

"And  then  kindly  pack  that  very  small  bag  of  mine  with 
things  for  the  night." 


202  'flie  Lonely  Warrior 

But  when  Parker  had  brought  the  drinks  to  the  library  he 
came  up  close  to  Stacey.  "Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low 
tone.  "There's  a  young  lady  who's  called  to  see  you." 

Stacey  opened  his  eyes  wide,  but  he  rose  immediately. 
"Just  a  minute,  Whittaker,"  he  remarked.  "Be  back  at 
once.  Pour  yourself  a  drink." 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  Parker,  when  they  were  in 
the  hall. 

The  man  looked  perturbed.  "She  wouldn't  give  me  her 
name,  sir,  and  that's  why  I  thought  I'd  better  speak  to 
you  quietly." 

"You  did  perfectly  right.    Where  is  she?" 

"In  the  little  drawing-room,  sir." 

"Most  likely  a  book  agent,"  said  Stacey,  and  walked  down 
the  hall. 

But  it  was  not  a  book  agent.  It  was  Irene  Loeffler.  She 
stood  waiting,  an  expression  of  mingled  fear  and  determina- 
tion on  her  face,  across  which  the  color  came  and  went 
oddly. 

"Hello!"  said  Stacey  brusquely.  "What  are  you  doing 
here?"  He  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands ;  nor  did  she. 

The  girl  looked  at  him.  She  swallowed  nervously.  He 
could  see  the  movement  of  her  throat. 

"I'll — tell  you,"  she  replied  desperately.  "I  came  to  see — 
you,  because  you  won't  come  to  see  me.  I — I  don't  believe 
in  silly  old  conventions.  You — you'd  come  to  me  if  you — 
were  fond-of-me"  (she  blurted  out  the  three  words  in  one 
terrified  syllable),  "so  I — come  to  you." 

Any  one  half-way  normal  would  have  laughed  outright. 
Irene  was  so  absurdly  out  of  harmony  with  her  speech.  She 
was  as  shrinking  and  virginal  as  her  words  were  shameless. 
But  Stacey  was  beyond  humor.  He  was  living  in  a  state 
of  nervous  exasperation  bordering  on  madness.  "Oh,  I 
see !"  he  said  icily.  "A  declaration !" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  203 

Her  face  flamed.  "You  can  be  insulting  if  you  want  to !" 
she  cried,  with  a  sudden  angry  sincerity.  Then  she  went  on 
with  her  speech.  "And  when  I  came  and — asked  for  you, 
your  man — told  me  you  were  just — going  away  again — in  a 
few  minutes.  And  I  thought — that  is,  I  decided — I  mean, 
take  me  with  you !" 

He  stared  at  her  in  amazement  and  for  an  instant  did  feel 
a  small  flicker  of  amusement.  The  young  woman's  polite 
offer  chimed  in  so  well  with  Whittaker's  suggestion  that 
they  needed  another  girl. 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said  coolly,  "but  I  don't 
think  you'd  like  the  place.  I'm  going  out  to  Bell's  Tavern  at 
Clarefield.  It's  a  bit  rough  there  and  not  well  thought  of  in 
Vernon  society.  Greatly  as  I  should  enjoy  your  companion- 
ship, I  fear  you'd  find  yourself  rather  disapproved  of  in 
the  best  Bolshevik  circles  on  your  return." 

She  winced  under  his  words  and  flushed  crimson,  but  she 
faced  him,  not  unheroically.  "You're  hateful!"  she  cried. 
"But  I— I'll  go— if  you'll  take  me !" 

All  the  exasperation  that  he  was  feeling  within  him  burst 
loose  suddenly  upon  poor  Irene,  who  had  nothing  to  do 
with  causing  it.  . 

"You  little  fool!"  Stacey  said  savagely,  "even  the  idiots 
in  your  club  have  got  more  sense  than  you!  They  don't 
know  anything  about  facts,  and  you  don't,  either.  But  they 
know  enough  to  let  them  alone.  You  go  home  and  play  with 
your  theories  and  don't  mix  them  up  with  facts  any  more. 
If  I  had  so  much  as  a  shadow  of  a  fancy  for  you  I'd  take 
you  with  me.  But  I  haven't — luckily  for  you !  I  don't  care 
two  beans  about  you !  Now  run  along  home." 

But,  with  the  air  of  his  mind  cleared  by  this  explosion, 
and  when  he  saw  how  the  girl  had  collapsed  under  his  bru- 
tality, he  felt  suddenly  sorry  for  her,  and  sick  and  tired. 
"Look  here,  Irene!"  he  said,  taking  her  arm.    "I  didn't 


204  The  Lonely  Warrior 

mean  all  that.  Only,  honestly,  you  don't  care  anything  for 
me.  You've  just  built  up  an  imaginary  me  and  lavish  an 
imaginary  love  on  him.  Forgive  me  for  being  so  rough." 
What  he  said  this  time  was  true  beyond  a  doubt,  though 
Irene  could  hardly  be  expected  to  believe  it.  For  when  he 
took  her  arm  she  did  not  draw  close  to  him  in  delight ;  she 
shrank  instinctively  from  his  touch.  She  was  sobbing,  but 
he  was  probably  quite  right  in  thinking  that  it  was  from 
anger  and  shame.  She  controlled  hersel'f  presently  and 
wiped  her  eyes. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  be  going,"  she  remarked,  in  a  strangled 
voice. 

He  went  to  the  door  with  her.  "Good  night,  Irene,"  he 
said  cordially,  shaking  her  hand. 

"I — I'm  sorry  to  have — put  you  out,"  she  said  absurdly. 
"Oh,  that's  all  right !"  he  replied,  with  a  touch  of  amuse- 
ment.   "Good  night." 

Stacey  returned  to  Whittaker.  "Sorry  to  keep  you  so 
long,"  he  observed. 

"No  harm  in  that,"  the  other  returned  genially,  "so  long 
as  you  leave  me  in  such  good  company."  He  waved  his 
hand  toward  the  carafe. 

"Yes,  good  stuff,  isn't  it?"  said  Stacey,  and  took  a  stiff 
drink. 

They  set  off  presently,  Stacey  giving  a  sigh  of  relief  at 
being  out  of  the  house  and  in  some  one  else's  hands — no 
longer  obliged  to  think  for  himself. 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  The  car  ploughed  through  the 
freezing  slush  and  mud  of  a  suburban  district  until  at  last 
it  drew  up  before  a  small  outlying  drug-store. 

Whittaker  blew  the  horn,  and  a  girl  scurried  out  into  the 
green  and  purple  light,  and  down  to  the  curb. 
"Gee !"  she  excl'aimed,  "there's  two  of  you !" 
"Uh-huh,"    Whittaker    assented.      "My    friend,    Stacey 


The  Lonely  Warrior  205 

Carroll,  Minnie.  Another  hero  of  the  late  world  unpleasant- 
ness. Minnie  Prentice,  Carroll.  Hop  in,  Minnie,  old 
thing!" 

Stacey  had  stepped  down  to  let  the  girl  in.  She  shook  his 
hand  and  turned  her  small  piquant  face  to  his  for  a  moment, 
then  sprang  up  lightly,  dropping  a  kiss  on  Whittaker's 
cheek,  running  her  arm  through  his,  and  snuggling  into 
place,  all  in  a  second. 

"Minnie,"  Whittaker  remarked,  as  the  car  leaped  for- 
ward, "was  lately  a  prominent,  if  silent,  member  of  that 
unfortunate  production,  'The  Pearl  Girl,'  which  expensive 
show  completely  failed  to  arouse  Chicago  from  its  sleep, 
and  passed  away,  with  me  finally  almost  the  only  mourner. 
Disgusted  with  the  rouge  and  corruption  of  the  stage,  Min- 
nie decided  to  reform;  and  where,  as  I  explained  to  her, 
can  you  reform  better  than  in  Vernon?  in  which  pleasant 
city  she  now  holds  a  position  at  Leveredge's  department  store 
(notion  counter),  and  has.  me  for  a  chaperon.  Hey, 
Minnie?" 

"You  forget  to  tell  Mr.  What's-his-name  the  rest,  Bill," 
said  Minnie  with  dignity. 

"Mr.  Carroll,  sweetness,  Carroll !  The  Vernon  Carrolls ! 
So  I  do,"  Whittaker  rattled  on,  meanwhile  driving  the  car 
consummately  over  a  slippery  expanse  of  ice.  "Having  a 
sweet  pure  voice,  Minnie  is  on  the  very  verge  of  being  ad- 
mitted to  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  choir.  Hence  the 
obscure  situation  of  our  meeting-place.  For,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  would  not  approve 
of  my  respectful  appreciation  of  Minnie.  Evil  minds  church 
people  have !" 

The  young  woman  giggled.  "My,  but  you're  silly,  Bill! 
I'll  say  you  are !"  she  observed.  "What'll  Mr. — er — Carroll 
— got  it  that  time,  didn't  I  ?— think  of  me  ?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  worry  about  that!"  Whittaker  replied. 


206  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"He  won't  think  of  you  at  all.    He's  got  a  secrd.  sorrow." 

The  girl  turned  her  face  toward  Stacey.  "That  so,  Mr. 
Carroll  ?  You  got  a  secret  sorrow  ?"  she  inquired.  "What's 
she  like?" 

Stacey  laughed.  He  was  not  diverted  by  such  patter,  but 
he  was  soothed  by  it;  it  was  precisely  what  he  needed  to 
tide  him  over  these  hours.  "Blonde,"  he  returned.  "As 
blonde  as  you  are.  At  least,  as  blonde  as  I  think  you  are 
from  your  voice.  From  what  I've  seen  of  you  so  far  your 
coloring  appeared  to  be  mixed  green  and  purple." 

"Huh?" 

"Come  on,  sweetness!"  Whittaker  urged.  "Coax  the 
little  mind  along !  Teach  it  to  walk !  Don't  be  afraid,  little 
pet !  Toddle  over  to  daddy !" 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "I  get  you !  The  lights  there  at 
that  drug-store." 

"That's  it !  That's  it !  Why,  the  little  darling  took  three 
whole  steps  by  its  own  self !"  Whittaker  said  admiringly. 
"Colossal  mind  Minnie  has !"  he  added  to  Stacey.  "Too  big 
to  work !  Too  big  to  move !  Just  lies  still  and  pants !" 

"Oh,  you  shut  your  face,  Bill !  I  guess  my  mind's  as  good 
as  yours  any  time.  You  care  a  lot  about  it,  anyway,  like  hell 
you  do !  I'll  tell  you  what  you  care  about."  And  she  whis- 
pered, giggling,  into  his  ear. 

With  such  trivial  talk  they  passed  the  time. 

But  presently  the  car  swung  into  a  wide  road,  where  the 
snow,  well  packed  and  sanded,  had  not  been  torn  into  icy 
slush  by  city  drays ;  and  here  Whittaker  increased  the  speed. 
The  hum  of  the  engine  became  a  smooth  rhythmic  thunder, 
the  cleft  air  roared  past,  and  any  further  talk  was  impossible. 

Stacey  was  thrown  back  on  his  thoughts.  They  became 
the  reality,  the  actual  present  only  a  shadow.  He  was  but 
vaguely  conscious  of  his  surroundings — the  cold  flowing  air, 
the  car's  headlights  on  the  snow,  Whittaker,  the  girl's  warm 


The  Lonely  Warrior  207 

body  next  him.  The  memory  of  Marian  was  more  vivid 
than  all  these  things.  Soon  now  she  would  be  expecting 
him  at  her  house,  and  he  would  not  be  there.  He  writhed. 
And  what  would  she  think  of  him?  She  must  hate  him. 
Until  to-day  he  had  not  cared  what  she  felt  toward  him. 
But  now  it  was  different.  He  and  she  had  been  honest  with 
each  other  to-day.  Fancies  gone,  illusions  gone,  everything 
false  and  pretty  stripped  off,  their  two  small  remaining  selves 
had  met  for  the  first  time  in  harmony,  each  no  longer  asking 
anything  that  the  other  could  not  give,  but  demanding  the 
possible  fiercely.  He  had  no  right  to  break  off  in  this  way. 
So  Stacey  thought  dizzily,  anger  with  Catherine  and  him- 
self returning  at  intervals,  as  a  variation  on  the  theme. 

He  came  back  wearily  to  the  present,  as  the  lights  of 
Clarefield  flashed  up  and  the  car  swept  over  the  curved 
driveway  leading  to  the  gleaming  road-house.  He  stepped, 
shivering  with  cold,  from  the  car,  and  helped  the  girl  out. 
They  waited  on  the  hotel  verandah  while  Whittaker  drove 
the  car  back  to  the  garage. 

"H-how  about-t  it  now,  Mr.  C-Carroll?"  she  demanded 
gaily,  her  teeth  chattering.  "Am  I  still  p-purple  and  green  ??' 

He  forced  as  much  interest  as  he  could,  and  looked  her 
over.  "No,"  he  answered,  "you're — well,  no  matter !  Only 
I  shouldn't  worry  about  a  mind,  if  I  were  you.  You  don'5 
need  one." 

She  really  was  pretty,  he  saw  with  indifference.  Bad 
mouth,  though,  he  noted,  with  an  equal  lack  of  interest. 
Loose  and  stupid. 

The  girl  returned  his  scrutiny.  "You're  not  so  worse, 
cither,"  she  said,  considering  him  with  sophisticated 
sensual  eyes. 

Whittaker  returned.  "God!  but  it's  cold!  Let's  run  for 
drinks.  Thank  the  Lord,  the  bar  here  is  still  wide  open !" 

They  went  in.    A  large  room  on  the  right  was  already  half 


208  The  Lonely  Warrior 

full  of  people  dining  and  dancing.  Whittaker  paused  for  a 
moment  to  reserve  a  table,  then  the  three  hurried  off  to  the 
bar.  It  occurred  to  Stacey  that  he  had  better  slip  away  from 
Minnie  and  Whittaker  after  a  little.  He  had  no  right  to 
spoil  their  evening.  Nice  sort  of  companion  they  must  be 
finding  him !  But  Whittaker,  with  the  geniality  of  his  sort, 
seemed  to  find  no  fault  in  his  guest,  while,  as  for  Minnie, 
she  would  clearly  be  benevolently  uncritical  of  any  man 
under  forty,  not  bad  looking,  who  would  drink.  Moreover, 
something  soon  happened  to  make  Stacey  change  his 
mind. 

Glancing  across  the  room  to  another  alcoved  space  oppo- 
site, he  caught  sight,  over  a  woman's  shoulder,  of  a  face  he 
thought  he  recognized,  started,  half  rose  to  make  sure,  then 
sank  down  again  in  his  chair  and  burst  into  unforced 
laughter. 

"What's  the  joke,  Carroll?"  Whittaker  inquired. 

"Nothing — except  that  I — see  Ames  Price  is  here,"  Stacey 
returned  weakly. 

"No,  is  he  really?"  exclaimed  Whittaker.  "Well,  I  say, 
it  is  a  bit  soon,  isn't  it?"  And  he,  too,  rose  to  look,  and 
laughed,  though  the  real  joke  was  lost  on  him.  "Stewed, 
too !  Stewed  to  the  gills !"  he  added. 

Stacey  got  up.  "Excuse  me  a  minute,"  he  said.  "I'll  go 
over  and  worry  him." 

Stacey  crossed  the  room  slowly.  His  mouth  still 
twitched  with  amusement,  but  the  expression  thus  given 
his  face  was  malignant  rather  than  mirthful.  No,  he  was 
certainly  not  at  his  best  when  he  smiled.  He  paused  near 
the  alcoved  recess  and  stood  gazing  maliciously  at  Ames 
Price,  whose  back  was  toward  him,  and  at  the  tall  handsome 
young  woman  sitting  across  the  table  from  Ames.  She  was 
slender  and  dark,  with  large  eyes  and  a  rather  fine,  weary 
mouth.  She  looked  bored  by  her  escort,  and  returned 


The  Lonely  Warrior  209 

Stacey's  stare  with  cool  interest.  Then  he  touched  Ames  on 
the  shoulder. 

The  man  looked  around  slowly,  but  when  he  saw  Stacey 
his  mouth  fell  open,  a  slow  flush  spread  over  his  smooth 
face  and  bald  forehead,  an  apprehensive  look  came  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  rose  quickly,  swaying  a  little. 

"Say!  What-ta  you  doing  here,  Shtacey?"  he  demanded 
thickly. 

"Me?"  Stacey  returned.  "Why  shouldn't  I  be  here?  I'm 
a  free  man,  unbound,  no  ties  at  all,  you  know." 

Price  clung  to  his  arm  and  pulled  him  away  to  the  edge 
of  another  booth,  out  of  hearing  of  the  young  woman. 

"  'Sh'unfortunate !"  he  said  hoarsely,  struggling  with  his 
intoxication.  "I  mean  to  shay — say — you  of  all  people !" 
He  drew  out  a  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  forehead.  "Look 
here,  Shta — no,  Carroll — you  don't  mind  if  I  call  you 
Carroll?  'S'  easier  to  say  than  Shta — your  other  name. 
No  lack  of  inti — intima — cy  intended.  Look  here,  Car- 
roll! Now  I'm  drunk,  of  course!  You  can  see  that! 
Anybody  can  see  that!  Whole  world  can  see  that! 
Hell!  that  isn't  what  I  was  trying  to  say."  He  paused 
again,  made  an  even  greater  effort  at  self -mastery, 
and  really  did  achieve  some  moderate  success.  The 
expression  of  concern  in  his  glazed  eyes  deepened.  "Damn 
it  all!  You  wonder  what  I'm  doing  here!  Now 
don't  you?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  Stacey,  enjoying  himself  evilly.  "I  saw 
you  here  and  just  dropped  over  to  say  hello." 

Ames  reached  for  a  carafe  that  stood  among  glasses  on  a 
table  near-by,  poured  a  tumblerful  of  water  with  a  shaking 
hand,  and  drank.  Then  he  shook  his  head  solemnly.  "No, 
you  wonder.  Of  course  you  wonder." 

Stacey  watched  him  critically.  "Doing  pretty  well,"  he 
thought.  But  beneath  Stacey's  surface  calm  was  hatred. 


210  The  Lonely  Warrior 

So  this — this  sweating,  panting,  bald-headed  animal1 — owned 
Marian,  did  he? 

"Damn  it  all,  Stacey !"  Ames  whispered  raucously,  leaning 
close  to  his  tormentor,  "I  can't  help  it !  Marian's  so  God- 
damned cold !  'S'no  place  to  talk  about  her — I've  got  sense 
enough  left  to  know  that.  But  got  to  explain  myself  to  you 
— you  of  all  people!  Cold,  that's  what  she  is, — ice! 
Freezes  a  man.  Honest  to  God  she  does !  Looks-a  fellow 
Vthough  he  was  dirt — yes,  tha's  it,  dirt!  Locks  her  door. 
'S'why  I  come  here.  Let  her  treat  me  like  a  man — I'd  be 
best  of  husbands — none  better." 

"Sorry  to  hear  this,"  Stacey  returned  smoothly.  "Wished 
you  both  all  sorts  of  happiness.  But  you  don't  owe  me  any 
explanations.  Besides,  this  is  a  place  for  light-hearted 
gaiety.  Shame  to  spoil  it  with  dull  thoughts  of  home.  I'm 
out  here  with  Bill  Whittaker  and  his  young  lady.  Thought 
perhaps,  when  I  saw  you,  we  might  all  arrange  to  dine 
together  in  one  large  genial  party.  How  about  it  ?" 

Ames  stared  at  him,  his  face  clearing  slowly.  "Why, 
sure!"  he  said  at  last,  heaving  a  sigh.  "Thought  at  first 
you'd — oh,  never  mind  now!  what?  Come  on  over  and 
meet  Ethel." 

"I'd  like  to.    Not  cold,  eh?" 

"No,  not  cold.  Not  warm  or  cold,"  said  Ames  judicially, 
"but  friendly.  Good  sort,  Ethel !"  He  drew  Stacey  back  to 
the  alcove.  "Ethel,  's  Stacey  Carroll.  Wants  us  to  dine  with 
him  an'  some  other  people.  First-rate,  what?" 

Stacey  bowed,  and  the  girl  looked  at  him  appraisingly. 
She  was  really  very  handsome,  he  saw  now,  with  an  enig- 
matic quality  in  her  face,  caused  perhaps  by  the  fact  that  her 
black  eyes  were  not  quite  horizontal,  but  slanted  down  ever 
so  faintly  toward  the  bridge  of  her  nose. 

"Yes,"  she  said  finally,  in  a  pleasant  voice,  "that'll 
be  nice." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  211 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  Stacey  remarked.  "I'll  go  back  and 
arrange  with  Whittaker  about  it.  See  you  both  in  a  few 
minutes."  And  he  crossed  the  room,  smiling  again. 

"Beautiful  plan  I've  evolved,  Whittaker,"  he  said,  sitting 
down  and  sipping  the  cocktail  that  was  waiting  for  him. 
"Ames  is  drunk,  as  you  observed.  Got  over  it  a  bit  in  talk- 
ing with  me,  but  will  grow  drunker  presently.  Very  attrac- 
tive girl  with  him — name  of  Ethel.  I  feel  innocent  sorrow 
for  her.  D'you  mind  if  we  all  dine  together?  I  propose  to 
remove  Ethel  gently  from  Ames.  Told  you  I'd  find  some 
one  out  here." 

Whittaker  laughed.  "Sure!"  he  said  heartily.  "That's 
something  like !  We'll  help  all  we  can,  hey,  Minnie  ?" 

"Gee !  Mr.  Carroll,  and  I  thought  you  was  slow !"  the  girl 
exclaimed  delightedly. 

"My  dear  Minnie,"  said  Stacey,  "of  course  you'll  find  me 
slow.  Here  I  am,  Bill's  guest.  I  owe  it  to  him  to  suppress 
all  the  evil  desires  you  arouse  in  me.  Besides,  we're  Pres- 
byterians in  our  family,  have  a  pew  in  the  church.  I'd 
never  feel  the  same  again  towards  the  choir  if  .  .  ."  He 
finished  his  cocktail  and  gazed  at  her  reproachfully  over  the 
glass,  while  she  laughed. 

They  all  three  crossed  the  room  to  Ames,  who  presented 
them  heavily  to  Ethel.  He  was  no  drunker  than  before,  how- 
ever,— perhaps  even  a  little  less  drunk,  and  he  entered  the 
dining-room  with  dignified  concentrated  steadiness. 

The  table  the  head-waiter  had  reserved  for  Whittaker 
would  only  seat  four  comfortably.  "I'm  the  outsider.  I'll 
sit  here  at  the  corner,"  Stacey  said  firmly,  and  motioned  the 
waiter  to  draw  him  up  a  chair  close  to  Ethel's.  "You  order, 
\Vhittaker,  will  you?" 

The  room  was  pandemonium,  on  account  of  the  jazz  band 
that  was  at  one  end  and  the  cabaret  performance  that  was 
everywhere.  All  conversations  were  necessarily  shouted. 


212  The  Lonely  Warrior 

It  occurred  to  Stacey  that  the  age  he  lived  in  was  devoted 
to  noise,  as  a  barbaric  preventive  of  thought.  No  doubt  it 
was  right.  What  good  had  thought  ever  done  the  world? 
Here  were  the  five  of  them,  come  out  frankly  in  quest  of 
food,  drink,  lights,  noise,  and  sexual  gratification.  Nothing 
but  animals,  all  five!  Well,  what  of  it?  Clearly  that  was 
what  the  earth's  millions  were  all,  in  this  glaring  after-war 
illumination,  revealed  as  seeking.  The  only  difference 
among  them  was  that  some  were  more  complicated  and 
refined  in  their  animalism  than  others.  There  wasn't  much 
complexity  out  here.  So  much  the  better !  Strip  off  the  last 
silken  shreds  of  decoration !  Leave  the  truth  stark  naked ! 
The  animal  was  all  there  was,  and  there  was  only  so  much, 
and  no  more,  to  the  animal. 

Thus  Stacey  mused,  under  cover  of  the  hubbub,  not  per- 
ceiving that  the  fact  of  his  musing  denied  its  conclusion; 
not  remarking  that  his  own  word  was  "quest";  not  seeing 
that  people  were  trying  to  be,  and  thus  were  not  wholly, 
animals;  certainly  not  seeing  that  this  quest  was  as  futile 
as  any  other. 

How,  indeed,  could  his  thoughts  fail  to  be  superficial? 
They  swam  languidly  on  the  surface  waters  of  his  mind. 
Beneath  was  a  painful  turmoil  into  which  he  struggled  not 
to  look. 

He  roused  himself  sharply,  with  a  start,  and  looked 
around.  Whittaker,  on  his  right,  was  leaning  over  to  Min- 
nie just  beyond,  his  face  close  to  hers,  his  hand  beneath  the 
table.  She  was  answering  his  glance  and  his  words,  her  blue 
eyes  dilated  below  the  delicately  darkened  eyebrows,  her 
loose  mouth  babbling  or,  between  speeches,  drooping 
sensually.  Ames  Price  was  concerned  with  nothing  but 
the  effort  to  control  his  intoxication.  Stacey  turned  to  the 
girl  beside  him. 

Her  pose  was  easy  and  graceful,  and  the  curve  of  her 


The  Lonely  Warrior  213 

cheek  beneath  the  mass  of  her  black  hair  was  rather  fine. 
Stacey  felt  the  enigmatic  quality  about  her  even  now  when 
he  could  not  see  her  slanting  eyes.  His  knee  touched  hers, 
not  intentionally  but  because  they  were  sitting  very  close 
together,  and  she  turned  her  face  slowly  toward  his.  Their 
eyes  met.  Hers  were  extraordinarily  large  and  dark,  and 
gazed  into  his,  half  curiously,  half  cynically,  for  a  long 
moment.  Strange  eyes,  unfathomable!  Suddenly  dull  fire 
smoldered  in  them,  and  Stacey  felt  dizzy.  He  shivered, — 
but  so  did  she;  he  felt  her  knee  tremble  against  his.  She 
smiled  and  lowered  her  eyes. 

"I've  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Carroll,"  she  observed  calmly. 
"Every  one  in  Vernon  has,  of  course.  I'd  rather  like  to  have 
been  a  man  and  fought  as  you've  fought." 

Clearly  she  had  better  self-control  than  he.  He  paused 
before  replying. 

"Would  you,  now?"  he  said  then.  "That's  odd!  You 
look  too  properly  disdainful  to  care  about  fighting,  and,  as 
to  being  a  man,  you  seem  to  me  very  thoroughly  a  woman." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  squarely,  appearing  to  study  him. 

"By  the  way,"  he  added  abruptly,  "what's  your  name? 
Your  drunken  friend  presented  you  merely  as  Ethel." 

"Wyatt.  Ethel  Wyatt.  It  wouldn't  mean  anything  to 
you.  But  I  prefer  Ames  drunk,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  turned  to  Price.  "Cheer  up,  Ames,  old  top!"  she 
cried,  in  a  jovial,  quite  different  voice.  "Cocktails !  Here's 
to  you !"  And  she  pushed  his  glass  toward  him. 

Ames  gave  her  a  dazed  smile,  patted  her  hand  heavily, 
and  drank.  "  'S'a  mistake !"  he  said.  "Had  one  a  minute 
ago.  Oughtn't  to  have  any  more.  But  mus'  drink  with 
Essel — Ethel."  He  beamed  across  at  Stacey.  "Told  you  so, 
Carroll.  See  her  for  yourself  now.  Friendly.  Not  warm 
or  cold,  but  friendly." 


214  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Again  she  turned  to  Stacey.    "You  believe  him  ?" 

"No."  He  stared  at  her  fiercely.  "Will  you  chuck  Ames 
and  run  off  somewhere  with  me?" 

"Yes,  later,"  she  replied  coolly,  "when  he's  quite  drunk. 
I  don't  want  a  scene.  I  hate  scenes."  And  she  turned  back 
to  Ames. 

Throughout  the  whole  dinner  she  paid  no  more  attention 
to  Stacey,  talking  instead,  with  smiles  and  a  coarsened  voice, 
to  her  escort.  But,  beneath  the  table,  her  ankle  was  curved 
about  Stacey's,  and  now  and  again  he  felt  it  tremble,  and 
trembled,  too.  But  no  touch  of  emotion  was  in  her  voice. 

He  had  begun  this  merely  as  a  savage  joke  on  Ames.  He 
was  physically  stirred  now  and  going  on  with  it  eagerly,  in 
search  of  oblivion. 

After  a  while,  Ethel  being  in  sprightly  conversation  with 
Ames,  Whittaker  leaned  close  to  Stacey.  "I  say !  what's  the 
matter?"  he  demanded.  "Wake  up  and  get  busy,  Carroll!" 

"Oh,"  said  Stacey  calmly,  "that's  all  right!  It's  all  ar- 
ranged. We're  only  waiting  for  Ames  to  get  completely 
blind.  Miss  Wyatt  doesn't  want  a  scene." 

Whittaker  stared,  then  laughed.  "My  heartiest  apol- 
ogies !"  he  exclaimed.  "You're  a  cool  pair !" 

"Where  am  I  going  to  go  from  here  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Whittaker  thoughtfully,  "you  might  go  on 
to  West  Boyd.  Fifteen  miles  straight  down  the  road. 
There's  a  good  inn  there,  the  Thorndike.  Oh,  but  hang  it, 
you  haven't  got  a  car !" 

"Can't  I  rent  one  here?" 

Whittaker  shook  his  head.  "Take  mine,  old  chap!"  he 
said  generously.  "I  don't  need  it.  I'll  telephone  my  man  to 
bring  out  the  other  to-morrow  morning." 

Stacey  hesitated. 

"Sure !  Sure !  Go  ahead !  I'm  all  for  helping  young 
lovers.  Need  money?" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  215 

"No,  I've  got  my  check-book.  I  suppose  they'll  cash  a 
check  here." 

Whittaker  nodded.  "I'll  endorse  it.  They  know  me." 
He  laughed  again.  "What  a  lark !" 

"Oh!"  said  Stacey  suddenly,  "one  thing!  Keep  Minnie 
quiet!  Don't  want  to  let  Ethel  know  I  had  this  planned 
before  I  met  her." 

Before  long  Ames  rose,  staggering,  his  face  livid. 
"  'Scuse  me,"  he  said  thickly,  "jus'  minute." 

"He's  going  to  be  sick,  I  guess,"  said  Minnie  delightedly, 
watching  him  lurch  across  the  crowded  room  toward  the 
door.  "But,  gee!  Mr.  Carroll,  you — " 

Whittaker  cut  her  off. 

Stacey  scribbled  a  check,  and  Ethel  drank  her  coffee. 

"He  won't  be  back,  I  think,"  she  observed  calmly.  "Not 
for  a  long  time.  They'll  find  him  on  some  floor  after  a 
while.  So  .  .  ."  She  turned  to  Stacey. 

"So  we'll  leave  you,"  he  concluded  for  her.  "Thanks 
awfully  for  the  car,  Whittaker.  And  remember  what  the 
dinner  check  comes  to.  I'll  split  it  with  you  later." 

"You  will  not !  My  surprise  and  joy  at  your  behavior  are 
reward  enough.  Come  on !  We'll  see  you  off." 

And  presently,  when  Ethel  had  put  on  her  wraps,  and  the 
car  had  been  brought  around,  and  the  two  suitcases  put  in, 
Whittaker  and  Minnie  stood  on  the  verandah  to  see  the 
lovers  depart. 

"If  I  knew  where  Ames  was  I'd  get  his  shoe  and  throw 
after  you,"  called  Whittaker,  as  Stacey  started  the  car. 

But  there  was  no  sign  of  Ames. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  chill  silent  night  was  a  relief  to  Stacey,  and  perhaps  to 
the  girl,  after  the  heated  promiscuity  of  the  road-house.  An 
aloof  wintry  moon  shone  coldly  on  the  white  fields  and  made 
the  frozen  ponds  glitter. 

Stacey  and  Ethel  might  have  been  husband  and  wife  from 
their  nonchalant  indifference  to  conversation.  They  hardly 
spoke  on  the  long  ride ;  yet  there  was  no  constraint  between 
them.  Once  he  asked  her  if  she  was  cold,  and  she  said  that 
she  was  not;  and  once  she  observed  that  there  was  a  bad 
grade  a  little  way  ahead,  and  he  noted  idly  to  himself  the 
absence  of  self-consciousness  with  which  she  admitted  to 
knowing  the  road. 

"I  suppose,"  he  remarked,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  as 
they  drew  near  West  Boyd,  "that  I'd  better  register  us  as 
man  and  wife  under  some  fancy  name?" 

The  girl  turned  her  head  toward  him  slowly.  "For  my 
sake  or  your  own  ?"  she  inquired  coolly. 

"For  neither.  To  save  the  hotel's  face  and  avoid  annoy- 
ance for  us." 

She  nodded,  as  though  satisfied. 

She  entered  the  inn  unconcernedly,  except  that  she 
wrinkled  her  forehead  and  half  closed  her  strange  eyes  in 
the  sudden  brightness,  and  she  stood  with  equal  unconcern 
by  Stacey's  side  while  he  registered  and  asked  for  a  room. 
Yet  even  he,  who  was  hardly  at  all  curious  about  her,  recog- 
nized that  her  calm  was  not  the  mere  callousness  of  the 
prostitute.  It  was  easy,  not  hard,  and  so  it  seemed  to  arise 
not  from  outer  experience — however  much  experience  she 

216 


The  Lonely  Warrior  217 

might  have  had — but  from  an  inner  indifference  to  facts. 
So,  at  any  rate,  Stacey  thought;  then  thought  no  more 
about  it. 

When  a  bell-boy  had  accompanied  them  to  their  room  and 
set  down  their  bags  and  departed,  closing  the  door  upon 
them,  she  slipped  out  of  her  heavy  coat  and  removed  her 
hat  gracefully.  But  then,  at  last,  she  turned  slowly  to 
Stacey,  who  had  been  standing,  watching  her.  Still  in 
silence,  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes  profoundly,  as 
they  had,  two  hours  earlier,  at  dinner.  The  girl's  mouth 
trembled.  Suddenly  they  kissed. 

"You — you're — brutal !"  she  stammered,  much  later,  pant- 
ing, her  face  convulsed  in  a  savage  ecstasy  of  delight. 

"Well— and  you?" 

They  remained  at  the  inn  for  five  days.  But  though 
physically  their  relation  was  unrestrained,  entire,  frenzied, 
no  faintest  intimacy  of  any  other  kind  grew  up  between 
them,  unless  it  may  be  counted  as  intimacy  that  they  were 
perfectly  at  ease  with  each  other  in  their  hours  of  bodily 
cal'm,  and  could  walk  together  across  the  frozen  fields, 
silent  or  nearly  so,  unembarrassed,  each  thinking  his  own 
thoughts.  Ethel  might  almost  swoon  in  Stacey's  embrace; 
a  moment  after,  her  dark  eyes,  that  had  been  moist  and 
dilated,  would  become  as  unfathomable  as  ever.  And,  as 
for  him,  he  might,  and  did,  serve  passion  recklessly  until 
pleasure  turned  to  pain ;  nothing  would  come  of  it  all,  noth- 
ing be  left  over,  no  emotion,  not  even  a  grateful  memory  of 
delight,  not  even  disgust, — only  emptiness.  Never  in  soft 
moments  of  assuagement  did  tenderness  start  up  in  him  or 
show  in  her. 

They  talked,  of  course.  And  they  did  not  say  sharp 
things  or  get  on  one  another's  nerves.  They  were  not 
enemies.  They  talked  only  of  general  subjects,  dispassion- 


2i 8  The  Lonely  Warrior 

ately,  objectively.  Or,  rather,  all  subjects,  even  ideas,  be- 
came external  when  Stacey  and  Ethel  spoke  of  them.  Yet 
the  girl  talked  well  and  intelligently.  It  was  simply  that  she 
revealed  no  emotional  interest  in  anything  they  discussed. 
She  seemed  as  detached  and  indifferent  as  he.  But  this, 
though  it  made  their  association  comfortable,  was  not  a  bond 
between  them. 

Only  once  did  their  two  personalities  become  conscious  of 
each  other  and  touch  and  draw  a  spark.  When  this  hap- 
pened it  was  immediately  apparent  that,  though  Ethel  and 
Stacey  were  not  enemies,  they  were  antagonists,  facing  one 
another  warily. 

It  was  on  the  last  morning  of  their  stay.  The  girl  was 
lying  motionless  on  the  bed,  in  the  pose  of  Manet's 
"Olympe"  and  with  much  the  same  exotic  appearance. 
Stacey  was  sprawling  in  a  chintz-covered  rocker.  He  was 
suffering  from  a  kind  of  bleak  despair ;  for  he  was  reflecting 
that  everything  he  had  done  was  impotent  to  destroy  his 
desire  for  Marian.  This  was  unfair,  he  thought  sullenly, 
since  his  desire  for  Marian,  too,  was  purely  physical.  Why, 
then,  should  not  this  liaison  suffice?  So,  when  Ethel  spoke 
to  him  he  answered  her  curtly. 

"Isn't  it  time,"  she  observed,  without  moving,  "that  you 
asked  me  about  my  past  life,  how  I  reached  this  regrettable 
condition,  and  so  forth  ?" 

He  looked  up  slowly  and  considered  her.  "No,"  he  said, 
"I'm  not  interested." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows.  "Dear  me!  Not  at  all? 
How  disrespectful  of  conventions!  Why?  Because  you 
despise  me  ?" 

"You  know  I  don't  despise  you,"  he  replied  indifferently. 
"Moreover,  you  don't  care  whether  I  do  or  not." 

She  smiled  a  little  at  this.  "I  don't  think  that  in  all  these 
five  days  I've  expressed  any  appreciation  of  you,"  she  went 


The  Lonely  Warrior  219 

on  coolly.  "You're  really  very  satisfactory.  Now  that's  what 
marriage  ought  to  be  like.  Two  healthy  animals  taking  all 
the  sharp  pleasure  they  can  from  one  another  and  letting 
each  other's  immortal  souls  alone.  Silly  that  they  should  be 
immortal,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  they're  not.  I  think  they  must 
be,  though ;  they're  so  completely  solitary.  Nobody  can  ever 
have  made  them,  they're  so  solitary.  They  must  always 
have  been, — like  stars  in  the  empty  sky;  and  so  they  must 
always  go  on." 

He  felt  interest  now  at  last.    She  was  strange. 

"I  was  with  the  Colin  Jeffries'  until  recently,"  she  went 
on,  in  the  same  cool  tone  and  not  even  troubling  to  explain 
her  revelation.  Indeed,  it  was  not  like  a  personal'  revelation. 
She  seemed  to  Stacey  to  be  merely  meditating  aloud — and 
about  a  third  person.  "With  the  Colin  Jeffries' — as 
governess  to  their  children." 

Stacey  smiled. 

"An  impossible  house,"  she  continued  imperturbably. 
"Mrs.  Jeffries  is  the  kind  of  woman  who  wants  to  dig  into 
every  one's  mind  and  pull  out  the  weeds  and  plant  it  with 
proper  vegetables — cabbages  and  such — in  rows.  And  Mr. 
Jeffries  is  tiresomely  lecherous.  He  was  always  trying  to 
get  into  my  bedroom.  Once  he  hid  in  my  bath." 

Stacey  laughed.  "I  didn't  know  that,  of  course,"  he  said, 
"but  I  might  have  guessed  it.  Any  such  public  institution 
as  Colin  Jeffries  must  have  to  take  it  out  privately  somehow. 
I  can  see  why  you  went  away.  Still  I  think  you  might  have 
found  something  a  little  better  than  Ames  Price." 

"Oh,"  she  explained  simply,  "I  didn't  take  him  on  at  once. 
I  had  an  idea  that  there  might  be  something  more  interesting 
in  a  disorderly  life  than  an  orderly  one.  Silly,  wasn't  it? 
One's  as  dull  as  the  other.  Ames  is  really  as  good  a  solution 
as  any.  He  is  generous  with  money  and  unperturbing." 

Stacey  frowned.    "That  reminds  me,"  he  said.     "We'll 


220  The  Lonely  Warrior 

have  to  go  back  to-day.  I'm  about  at  the  end  of  my  money 
and  I  have  almost  none  in  the  bank." 

She  expressed  no  surprise  at  this,  even  by  a  look,  though 
she  must  have  known  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  rich.  But 
a  shadow  of  regret  did  cross  her  face.  She  gazed  at  him, 
and  he  at  her. 

"Come  here !"  she  said  finally. 

He  obeyed.  His  eyes  caressed  her  slim  form  somberly. 
"Your  body  is  as  strange  as  your  face !"  he  muttered. 

She  shivered,  set  her  teeth,  and  stared  at  him  in  a  fury 
of  desire. 

They  left  the  inn  early  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day  and 
drove  back  over  the  road  that  led  to  Clarefield  and  Vernon. 
They  were  as  separate  as  ever  mentally,  but  they  talked 
rather  more  freely,  and  Stacey,  though  he  felt  neither  love 
nor  friendship  for  the  girl,  felt  esteem  for  her  because  she 
existed  proudly  by  herself.  He  would  not  have  her  bruised. 
He  would  defend  her  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  from  trouble, 
as  one  might  defend  a  stranger  from  physical  attack. 

So :  "What  are  you  going  to  do,"  he  demanded  suddenly, 
"when  you  get  back  to  Vernon?" 

"Go  to  my  apartment,"  she  returned.  "The  one  Ames 
took  for  me.  Ames  will  come  back."  She  smiled  faintly. 
"Are  you  concerned  lest  you've  ruined  my  prospects  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  said  unemotionally. 

"How  noble  of  you !    Don't  worry.    You  haven't." 

All  at  once  he  laughed.  "I  was  thinking  what  a  marvel- 
lous judge  of  character  Ames  is,"  he  observed.  "  'Not  warm 
or  cold,  Ethel,  but  friendly !' " 

The  girl  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  strangely, 
but  this  time  without  smiling. 

At  Clarefield  they  drove  up  to  Bell's  Tavern  where  their 
adventure  had  begun,  intending  to  warm  themselves  before 


The  Lonely  Warrior  221 

going  on.  They  sat  down  in  the  booth  where  Ethel  had  sat 
with  Ames  Price  on  the  night  of  Whittaker's  dinner. 
Stacey  reflected  moodily,  while  they  waited  for  the  drinks 
he  ordered,  that,  though  nearly  a  week  had  passed  since  that 
evening,  nothing  whatever  had  happened.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded in  staying  away  from  Marian,  but  he  wanted  her  as 
much  now  as  he  had  wanted  her  then.  Five  full  days  of  this 
affair  with  Ethel  had  not  added  a  fraction  to  what  he  felt 
and  was  at  the  beginning  of  it,  or  taken  a  fraction  away.  If 
time  were  to  be  set  back,  the  interlude  wiped  out,  and  he 
were  to  find  himself  sitting  again  with  Whittaker  and  Min- 
nie, looking  across  at  Ames  drunk,  nothing  would  be 
changed. 

But  he  was  awakened  from  this  reverie  by  the  desk-clerk, 
who  came  up  and  touched  his  arm. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Stacey  Carroll,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  clerk.  "I  remember  your  cashing 
a  check  here  last  Saturday  night.  This  telegram  came  for 
you  two  days  ago.  We  didn't  know  what  to  do  about  it,  and 
so  we  just  held  it,  thinking  maybe  you'd  be  back." 

"Thanks,"  said  Stacey,  taking  it.  "Can't  imagine  who'd 
address  me  here  except  Whittaker,"  he  observed  to  Ethel, 
as  he  tore  open  the  yellow  envelope,  "and  he'd  have  sent  any 
message  to  West  Boyd." 

But,  as  he  glanced  at  the  telegram,  he  started. 

"Philip  dangerously  ill  with  pneumonia.  Come  at  once. 
Catherine,"  it  read. 

Stacey  pushed  back  his  chair  and  got  up  quickly.  "We'll 
have  to  go — at  once !"  he  said.  "A  friend  of  mine  is  ill — 
pneumonia." 

She  rose.  "Your  face  is  pale,"  she  observed,  as  he 
reached  for  her  coat.  "You  really  do  care  about  something, 
don't  you?" 


222  The  Lonely  Warrior 

He  nodded,  holding  out  the  coat. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad,"  she  concluded,  slipping  it  on. 
"I'm  ready." 

"Drink  your  high-ball  first — as  quickly  as  you  can,"  he 
said,  not  unkindly. 

"No,"  she  returned,  "I  don't  care  about  it.  Come! 
Let's  go." 

He  flung  money  on  the  table  and  hurried  the  girl  out. 
"And  the  message  is  two  days  old !"  he  muttered,  wondering 
dully  who  could  have  told  Catherine  he  was  at  Clarefield. 

He  drove  the  car  to  Vernon  at  a  tremendous  speed,  Ethel 
sitting  silent  by  his  side.  He  spoke  but  once,  to  ask  her  the 
address  of  her  apartment. 

But  when  they  drew  up  in  front  of  it  and  he  had  helped 
her  out,  he  stood  with  her  for  just  a  moment  on  the  side- 
walk. For  all  that  he  was  feeling  anxiety  for  his  friend  so 
strongly  as  almost  to  wipe  everything  else  from  his  mind, 
he  nevertheless — and  even,  somehow,  because  of  this — felt 
now  at  last  a  touch  of  human  interest  in  Ethel. 

"If  you  ever  need  anything  at  all — or  want  to  see  me  for 
any  reason,  call  me  up  at  my  house,"  he  said  inadequately. 

"Thanks,"  she  murmured.     "Good-bye." 

He  sprang  back  into  the  car  and  drove  swiftly  to  Phil's 
house. 

There  was  another  car  standing  at  the  curb.  "The  doc- 
tor's !"  he  thought,  with  sudden  hope. 

Stacey  did  not  ring,  but  opened  the  door  softly  and 
walked  into  the  living-room. 

Catherine  was  sitting  there,  like  some  expressionless 
Byzantine  Madonna,  with  Carter  in  her  arms.  He  was 
sleeping,  his  flushed  face  and  tousled  yellow  hair  against  her 
breast,  his  legs  dangling  limply  from  her  lap.  There  was  no 
one  else  in  the  room.  Catherine  looked  up  as  Stacey  entered, 
but  she  did  not  speak. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  223 

He  stared  at  her.    "Phil  ?"  he  demanded  in  a  low  voice. 

The  shadowy  expression  on  her  face  deepened  until  it  was 
Unmistakable  pain  and  fatigue,  but  still  she  did  not  speak. 

"Dead  ?"  Stacey  cried  hoarsely. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  gently,  "he  died  last  night — very 
peacefully." 

Stacey  sat  down  suddenly  and  turned  his  head  away. 
Tears  did  not  come  to  his  eyes,  but  he  gasped,  a  choking 
feeling  in  his  throat  that  made  it  hard  for  him  to  breathe. 

"Poor  Stacey !"  said  Catherine  softly,  after  a  little. 

"Poor  me?!"  he  exclaimed,  "oh!  ...  I  only  got  your 
telegram  an  hour  ago." 

"Of  course.    I  knew  you  couldn't  have  got  it." 

Stacey  became  aware  of  the  sound  of  feet  moving  on  the 
floor  above.  "Who's — up  there?"  he  inquired. 

Catherine's  lip  trembled.  "People  doing — the  things  that 
have  to  be  done." 

He  winced.  "And  you're — left  alone  here!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"I'd  rather  be.  Mrs.  Latimer  has  just  gone.  She  took 
Jackie." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?"  he  stammered. 

"No— please!" 

They  sat  there  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  At  last  the 
solemn  professional  people  came  down  from  upstairs  and 
went  out,  bowing  gravely  to  Catherine.  Then  Mrs.  Latimer 
returned.  She  looked  at  Stacey,  first  in  surprise,  then 
compassionately. 

"You'd  better  go  now,  Stacey,"  Catherine  said.  "I  shall 
be  all  right.  Mrs.  Latimer  and  I  must  put  Carter  to  bed. 
Would  you  like  to  go  up  and — look  at  Phil  ?" 

He  nodded.    "Thanks !"  he  said,  choking. 

He  stumbled  up  the  stairs,  went  into  Phil's  room,  and 
stood  there  for  some  time,  looking  down  at  the  peaceful 


224  The  Lonely  Warrior 

emaciated  face.  Stacey  was  suffering  acute  pain  and — 
worse  than  that — a  deeper  sense  of  desolation  than  he  had 
yet  felt.  He  had  not  dreamed  that  he  cared  so  much  for 
Phil.  To  have  shown  him  so  in  some  way !  To  have  given 
something  decent  and  human  in  return  for  Phil's  warm 
gentleness !  The  best  that  Stacey  could  do  for  comfort  was 
to  remember  that  the  last  time  he  had  seen  Phil  he  had 
shaken  his  hand  at  parting.  Only  that ! 

Stacey  went  downstairs  finally  and  out  of  the  house.  He 
drove  home,  then  sat  down  wearily  to  write  a  note  to  Whit- 
taker  thanking  him  for  the  car.  He  gave  the  note  to  Parker 
and  told  him  to  have  the  chauffeur  take  it,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, with  the  car,  to  Whittaker's  house.  He  did  not  feel 
irony  or  bitterness  or  scorn  of  himself  in  doing  these  things. 
They  were  merely  things  that  had  to  be  done.  He  was 
through  with  proud  hostility  of  spirit ;  he  was  beaten.  But 
he  did  not  say  this  to  himself,  either. 

His  father  came  home  before  very  long.  He  was  gentle 
with  Stacey,  asked  him  no  questions,  tried  even  to  veil  the 
look  of  apprehensiveness  in  his  own  eyes.  And  Stacey 
recognized  his  kindness,  the  sweetness  of  nature  that  lay 
beneath  Mr.  Carroll's  set  firmness, — recognized  all  his 
father's  virtues,  more  clearly  and  justly  than  ever  before. 
But  it  was  as  though  he  were  recognizing  the  virtues  of  a 
convincing  figure  in  a  two-dimensioned  movie  play.  The 
world  of  men  had  become  a  world  of  shadows  to  Stacey. 

Catherine  alone  he  felt  as  a  real  person — no  doubt  be- 
cause she  was  suffering  the  same  sorrow  as  he.  He  spent 
all  the  time  with  her  that  she  would  permit,  and  while  the 
funeral  service  was  being  held  in  the  sitting-room  of  the 
little  house  he  sat  with  her  and  Carter  upstairs  in  Phil's  old 
room.  They  were  both  silent,  save  when  they  spoke  com- 
fortingly to  the  frightened  weeping  boy.  They  could  hear 
the  grave  accents  of  the  clergyman's  voice  downstairs. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  225 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Catherine?"  he  asked  her  one 
morning  two  or  three  days  later.  "Shall  you  go  back  to 
New  York — to  your  sister's?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I'll  stay  here  for  now,  I  think," 
she  replied.  "The  house  rent  is  paid  for  a  long  time  ahead, 
and  I  don't  want  to  take  the  boys  out  of  school." 

"Do  you  need  money?    You  must  tell  me  if  you  do." 

"No — thanks,"  she  answered  simply.  "I  have  plenty  for 
now,  and" — her  eyes  drooped  wearily — "Phil  carried — quite 
heavy  insurance.  Your  father,  too,  asked  me  that,"  she 
added.  "He's  been  awfully  good." 

"He  would  be,"  said  Stacey  drearily. 

Catherine  considered  him  sadly.  "Stacey,"  she  said,  "you 
look  dreadfully  ill." 

"I  feel  a  bit  fagged,"  he  admitted.  "I've  been  thinking 
that  towards  spring  I  might  go  down  to  father's  place  in 
North  Carolina." 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "yes !    But  why  not  go  now  ?" 

"Well,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  then  paused. 

"I  know.  You'd  like  to  help  me.  But  there's  nothing  you 
can  do,  Stacey.  That's  sad,  but  it's  so.  It  only — " 

"Yes.  Gives  you  an  extra  worry."  He  gazed  at  her. 
"Odd,"  he  thought,  "how  strong  you  are!  Stronger  than 
Phil,  stronger  than  I!"  But  he  only  said  yes,  that  he 
would  go. 

His  father  greeted  the  suggestion  almost  joyfully.  "The 
best  thing  possible!"  he  exclaimed.  "There's  the  house, 
standing  empty — hardly  been  used  six  months  in  ten  years. 
Saddle  horse  eating  his  head  off  in  the  stable — old  Elijah 
perishing  for  want  of  conversation.  I  was  down  there  for  a 
couple  of  months  two  years  ago,  but  it  bored  me.  I  haven't 
cared  for  the  place  since  your  mother  died." 

Stacey  nodded.  "I  understand  how  you  feel  about  it,"  he 
said.  And,  indeed,  he  did  for  a  moment  receive  a  sudden 


226  The  Lonely  Warrior 

poignant  memory  of  their  winter  life  down  there  when  his 
mother  had  been  alive  and  they  had  all  been  young  and  gay. 
The  memory  faded  almost  at  once.  "Then  I  might  as  well 
be  off  some  day  this  week,  sir,"  he  remarked. 

"You'd  better  wait  till  after  Christmas,"  said  his  father. 
"Er — Julie's  rather  counting  on  Christmas  together." 

"Of  course,"  Stacey  assented  remorsefully. 

"Mind  you  have  Elijah  look  after  Duke's  feet,"  Mr.  Car- 
roll added,  in  obvious  haste  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  senti- 
ment. "His  hoofs  were  always  brittle." 

So  presently,  Christmas  over,  Stacey  departed.  It  was 
capitulation,  but  he  did  not  care  about  that.  The  only  thing 
that  interested  him — and  this  but  idly — was  that  he  should 
so  crave  to  get  away  from  men  and  women  when  men  and 
women  had  become  such  intangible  phantoms. 

For  the  rest,  there  was  only  the  heavy  sense  of  Phil's 
death  and  of  Catherine  bearing  up  under  it  bravely. 


PART  II 


PART   II 

CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  afternoon  on  the  last  day  of  December  when  Stacey 
arrived  at  the  little  station  of  Pickens,  North  Carolina.  His 
face  had  a  sunken  ravaged  look,  and  grime  from  the  repul- 
sively dirty  train  made  its  underlying  pallor  ghastly.  But 
Stacey  was  not  really  in  any  such  abject  condition  as  he  ap- 
peared to  be.  He  was  worn  out,  beaten  back  at  every  point, 
but  something  in  him  still  hung  on ;  his  eyes  were  tired  but 
alive.  In  the  train,  which  was  crowded,  as  only  a  branch-line 
train  of  the  Southern  Railway  can  be  crowded,  with  commer- 
cial travellers  and  with  slovenly  mothers  publicly  nursing 
crying  children  much  too  old  to  be  nursed  either  publicly  or 
privately,  he  had  listened  with  even  a  little  amusement  to  talk 
of  how  much  better  the  service  would  be  as  soon  as  the 
government  turned  the  road  back  to  the  company;  and  his 
will  to  get  away  by  himself,  out  of  touch  with  men  and 
women,  was  strong  and  intense,  sustaining  him.  He  was 
not  repelled  by  the  sordid  ugliness  of  the  station  and  the 
glimpse  of  Main  Street,  but  felt  rather  an  unemotional  sense 
of  home-coming,  which  any  native  of  Pickens  would  have 
attributed  to  the  fact  that  Stacey's  mother's  people,  though 
now  all  dead  or  widely  scattered,  had  been  the  Pickens  Bar- 
clays, but  which  more  likely  arose  in  Stacey  because  the 
end  of  his  quest  was  in  sight. 

Anyway  here  came  old  Elijah,  grinning  broadly,  hat  in 
hand,  his  fringe  of  white  hair  blowing  about  his  nearly  bald 
black  head.  He  shook  Stacey's  hand  vigorously. 

22Q 


230  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"I  shuah  almos'  thought  you  wasn't  on  that  theah  train, 
Mistuh  Stacey,"  he  declared.  "Theah  didn'  seem  nothin' 
but  babies."  And  he  carried  Stacey's  bag  across  the  plat- 
form to  a  buggy. 

"Hello !"  said  Stacey,  "you're  driving  Duke !  What  will 
Mr.  Carroll  say  to  that,  Elijah?" 

"Well,  Mistuh  Stacey,  suh,  I  jes'  had  to  get  you  home 
somehow.  These  heah  Fohds  at  the  garage,  jes'  as  like  as 
not  they  get  stuck  on  the  Meldrun  road.  I  wouldn'  have 
drove  Duke  'cept  foh  that.  It's  been  rainin'  a  powehful 
lot." 

"Haven't  they  mended  that  road  yet?"  Stacey  inquired, 
getting  into  the  buggy. 

"No,  suh,  not  yet.  You  stop  that,  Duke,  suh !"  he  called 
to  the  horse,  who,  impatient  of  the  shafts,  was  curveting 
sideways  down  the  street. 

Two  or  three  people  came  up  to  the  buggy  and  shook 
Stacey's  hand,  and  he  replied  to  their  greetings  as  heartily 
as  he  could;  but  he  was  eager  to  be  rid  of  them,  and  felt 
relief  when  presently  the  town  was  left  behind  and  the 
buggy  was  ploughing  through  the  waste  of  red  mud  known 
as  the  Meldrun  road.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  leaned  back  in 
the  seat,  drawing  in  deep  breaths  of  the  damp  chilly  air, 
and  letting  Elijah's  words  run  on  unchecked  and  un- 
heeded. 

The  landscape  was  a  sweet  and  pleasant  one  even  now  in 
winter  when  the  oaks  and  the  poplars  were  bare  of  leaves. 
The  rolling  brick-col'ored  fields,  planted  with  corn,  were  in- 
terspersed with  patches  of  woods,  where  hills  rose,  blue  with 
spruce  and  dark  green  with  white  pine.  Beyond  were  the 
low  friendly  mountains.  Log  cabins  were  scattered  about 
here  and  there,  with  pigs,  dogs  and  ragged  children  playing 
indiscriminately  before  them.  All  the  people  Stacey  met  or 
passed  on  the  road  raised  their  hats  gravely,  and  Stacey 


The  Lonely  Warrior  231 

raised  his  in  return.  He  was  enough  of  this  country,  and 
also  sufficiently  intelligent,  to  have  no  sentimental  northern 
fancies  about  its  romantic  aristocracy.  He  had  no  more 
illusions  about  the  people  of  Pickens  than  about  the  people 
of  Vernon.  If  the  latter  were  vulgar,  the  former  were 
bigoted.  There  greed  took  on  gigantic  forms ;  here  it  revealed 
itself  in  petty  ways.  Here,  as  there,  he  thought,  it  was  the 
one  permanent  human  instinct.  He  did  not  know  what  labor 
conditions  were  now  at  the  knitting  mills;  he  knew  what 
they  had  been  six  years  ago,  the  last  time  he  had  been 
down,  and  he  was  skeptical  of  any  change.  Yet  the  sight 
of  people  here  bothered  him  less  than  in  Vernon,  it  seemed. 
That,  he  thought  idly,  was  because  here  the  inhabitants 
were  more  a  part  of  their  country,  stood  out  less  blatantly 
against  the  landscape,  blended  with  it — or  almost.  Not  be- 
cause they  and  it  were  picturesque,  but  because  they  had 
belonged  to  their  country  for  many  generations,  whereas  in 
Vernon  nobody  had  been  molded  by  continuous  residence 
into  harmony  with  anything.  And  Stacey  reflected  that  only 
in  rural  New  England  and  the  South  did  you  get  this  im- 
pression of  harmony  between  landscape  and  people,  as 
though  they  had  mutually  made  one  another.  Really  they 
were  at  bottom  very  alike,  rural  New  England  and  the 
South,  though  each  would  have  been  shocked  at  the  idea. 
Each  with  a  continuous  past  from  which  it  had  sprung,  to 
which  it  belonged.  A  tight,  narrow,  little  past,  but 
authentic. 

Stacey  was  roused  from  meditation  by  a  sense  that  Elijah 
had  been  saying  the  same  words  a  great  many  times,  and 
that  the  words  were  a  question. 

"How's  that,  Elijah?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  jes'  say  in',  Mistuh  Stacey,  as  how  I  reckoned 
you'd  be  wantin'  some  colohed  girl  to  cook  f  oh  you  an'  make 
youah  bed?" 


232  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"No,"  said  Stacey  calmly,  "I  don't  want  any  one.  You'll 
do  that,  Elijah." 

The  old  man  grew  melancholy.  "Shuah,  Mistuh  Stacey, 
if  you  say  so,"  he  replied  sadly.  "I'll  wohk  myself  to  the 
bone  foh  you,  but  I  jes'  don'  know  if  I  positively  got  the 
time  to  do  everythin'  jes'  right.  I  got  a  powehful  lot  to  do, 
Mistuh  Stacey." 

"What  is  it,  Elijah?" 

"Well,  I  got  to  look  afteh  Duke,  suh,  an'  then  theah's  all 
that  big  place  to  see  to." 

"A  couple  of  men  working  on  it,  aren't  there  ?" 

"Yes,  suh,  but  that's  jes'  it.  They  don'  wohk  'less'n  I 
Stan's  oveh  them  all  the  time." 

"They  probably  don't  work  if  you  do.  I  don't  want  a 
maid,  Elijah.  You  can  hire  a  woman  to  come  in  and  clean 
for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  morning,  but  I  don't  want  to 
see  her." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  the  negro,  in  a  tone  of  aggrieved  resigna- 
tion. But  he  got  over  it  almost  at  once,  with  quick  forget- 
fulness,  and  was  presently  babbling  on  as  before. 

When  at  last  they  approached  the  Carroll  property  Stacey 
looked  about  him  more  attentively,  with  a  wistful  sense  of 
what  was  past,  such  as  one  might  feel  in  reading  over  old 
letters,  full  of  youthful  affection,  to  some  one  all  but  for- 
gotten now. 

The  house,  three  miles  distant  from  the  town,  was  low 
and  rambling,  with  deep  verandahs  and  numerous  sleeping- 
porches.  It  sat  on  a  knoll  among  ten  acres  of  sloping  lawn 
and  perhaps  ninety  of  oak  and  pine  woods;  and  from  its 
front  verandah  one  looked  away,  west,  for  miles  up  a  nar- 
rowing valley  between  tree-clad  mountains.  "Valley  Ridge," 
Stacey  remembered,  half  humorously,  half  painfully,  Julie 
had  tried  to  call  the  place  in  her  boarding-school  days,  and 


The  Lonely  Warrior  233 

had  come  down  one  Christmas  vacation  with  heavy  blue 
stationery  embossed  in  silver  with  that  legend;  at  which 
their  father  had  remarked  that  if  she  ever  used  any  of  that 
"Princess  Alice  abomination"  he'd  get  some  pink  paper  for 
himself,  have  "The  Pig  Sty"  engraved  for  a  heading,  and 
write  letters  on  it  to  the  principal  of  Julie's  school. 

It  was  odd,  Stacey  thought,  that  the  recollection  of  this 
trivial  incident  should  remain  in  his  mind  as  something 
touching,  more  touching  than  the  memory  of  really  emo- 
tional events — his  mother's  death,  for  instance.  How  things 
clung — the  absurdest  things!  One  could  never  get  rid  of 
them.  They  were  like  tattered  cobwebs  in  corners. 

But  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  driveway  by  now, 
and  Stacey  sprang  out. 

After  supper  he  sat,  huddled  ig  an  overcoat,  on  the  wide 
front  verandah  of  the  house.  The  low  mountains,  only  a  mile 
to  the  north,  were  hazy  blue  in  the  twilight.  Later  the  moon 
rose,  and  soft  brightness  spread  over  everything.  Straight 
ahead  the  narrow  valley  took  on  shimmering  pearly  tints, 
range  after  luminous  range  of  mountains  intersecting  its 
sides,  like  filmy  theatre-drops  in  a  stage  setting. 

In  the  midst  of  this  pale  silence  a  sense  of  reposefulness 
came  over  Stacey.  It  did  not  spring  from  any  achieved  har- 
mony. He  had  harmonized  nothing.  He  had,  as  he  was 
perfectly  aware,  merely  bolted.  And  nothing  that  he  had 
felt  was  gone.  His  pain  at  Phil's  death,  his  compassion 
for  Catherine,  his  hatred  of  men,  his  resentment  at  this  rag 
of  a  world, — all  this  and  everything  was  still  alive  within 
him,  but  submerged  beneath  his  isolation.  When  he  thought 
of  men  he  still'  thought  of  them  as  greedy  beasts  of  prey; 
but  it  was  possible  for  him  now,  he  believed,  not  to  see  them 
and  be  one  of  them. 

At  last,  when  it  had  grown  very  late,  he  went  up  to  the 


234  The  Lonely  Warrior 

bed  Elijah  had  made  for  him  on  a  sleeping-porch,  from 
which,  too,  he  had  the  same  view  of  the  shining  valley ;  and 
so  fell  asleep. 

And  now  began  for  Stacey  as  solitary  a  life  as  that  of 
any  medieval  hermit.  Every  morning  he  went  out  on  Duke 
for  a  fifteen-  or  twenty-mile  ride  over  mountain  roads  and 
paths,  returning  splashed  with  mud  and  frequently  drenched 
through,  for  the  season  was  exceptionally  rainy.  And  after 
the  late  cold  luncheon  which  he  trained  Elijah  to  leave 
spread  out  for  him,  he  would  set  off  again,  on  foot,  for 
the  woods. 

The  letters  that  came  for  him  he  tossed  unopened  into  the 
library  desk,  except  those  from  his  father  and  Catherine. 
Theirs  he  read,  but  hastily,  and  replied  to  them  with  an 
effort.  He  did  not  so  much  mind  reading  or  even  answering 
Mr.  Carroll's;  he  did  so  almost  mechanically.  But  Cath- 
erine's were  different.  Matter-of-fact  and  never  touching 
on  general  ideas,  they  were  yet,  in  some  cool  way,  inti- 
mate, and  certainly  without  the  shyness  that  had  always 
hampered  Catherine  in  talking  to  Stacey.  It  was  as  though 
in  these  letters  she  assumed  that  he  was  real,  as  he  felt  that 
she  was.  And  this  was  painful  to  him,  dragging  him  back 
into  the  world  from  which  he  had  fled.  Writing  to  her  was 
hard,  and  he  was  aware  that  his  letters  must  be  dull.  But 
Catherine  did  not  write  often — only  once  every  two  or 
three  weeks. 

Stacey  also  read  a  letter  from  Julie.  But  Julie  was  a  poor 
correspondent,  writing,  when  positively  forced  to,  in  an  odd 
stilted  manner  quite  uncharacteristic  of  her  pleasant  self. 
Only  this  one  effort  came  from  her ;  but  Stacey  would  not 
have  minded  fifty  letters  as  unreal.  The  postscript,  how- 
ever, did  sound  like  Julie,  and  brought  Stacey  back  for  a 
moment  to  Vernon.  "How  did  Irene  know  where  you  were 
when  Phil  was  dying?"  it  demanded.  Oh,  so  it  was  Irene 


The  Lonely  Warrior  235 

who  had  told  Julie,  and  Julie  Catherine,  that  he  was  at 
Clarefield !  He  stared  ahead  of  him,  recalling  the  tragedy ; 
then  laid  Julie's  letter  among  the  others  in  the  desk  drawer. 

A  few  people  called  on  Stacey,  and  he  was  polite  enough 
to  them ;  but  he  never  returned  their  visits,  and  soon  no  one 
troubled  him  further.  It  was  a  difficult  matter  to  drive  out 
from  town  through  all  that  mud.  When,  rarely,  he  did 
talk  with  people  he  received  an  impression  that  they  were 
literally  very  far  off.  Their  voices  seemed  to  reach  him 
from  a  distance,  or  deadened  as  though  through  a  barrier  of 
fog.  It  was  like  conversation  in  a  dream. 

Sometimes  on  his  rides  he  would  get  so  far  away  or  be 
caught  in  so  terrific  a  storm  that  he  would  stay  over  night 
in  some  mountaineer's  cabin.  On  these  occasions  he  was 
welcomed  with  a  grave  courtesy  unmarred  by  apologies  for 
what  his  hosts  had  to  offer.  The  cabin  invariably  had  but 
one  room  and  a  lean-to.  Supper  over,  the  women  would  go 
to  bed,  while  the  master  of  the  house  and  Stacey  smoked 
their  pipes  outside.  Then  the  two  of  them  would  enter,  un- 
dress in  the  dark,  and  lie  down  together.  It  did  not  irk 
Stacey  to  be  with  these  people.  They  seemed  apathetic 
and  emotionless,  and  their  eyes  had  an  abstracted  look. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  human  feeling  had  faded  in  him,  his 
long  neglected  fancy  was  waking  to  new  life.  His  mind 
grew,  like  an  enchanted  wood,  into  a  tangle  of  imaginings, 
that  gave  him  sometimes  a  feeling  of  release,  a  lifting  sense 
of  delight.  Simil'es  flitted  through  it  rapidly.  A  cloud 
shadow  on  a  blue  mountain  was  like  a  veil  flung  across  the 
face  of  a  goddess,  heightening  her  loveliness.  The  sudden 
sound  of  a  brook  in  the  forest  was  like  shy  laughter.  What 
was  laughter?  Something  delicately  unhuman,  perhaps,  an 
expression  of  the  youthful  buoyant  relation  between  earth's 
creatures  and  the  earth.  Biologists  said  that  animals  could 
not  laugh.  Idiotic !  It  was  only  animals  and  children  that 


236  The  Lonely  Warrior 

could  laugh.  A  dog  laughed.  Even  Duke  could  laugh.  It 
was  true  that  cats  could  not,  but  this  was  because  they  were 
not  primitive  animals,  but  civilized.  Men  did  not  laugh. 
They  smirked  or — or — ricanaient.  Stacey  could  not  think 
of  the  English  word  and  indolently  did  not  try  to. 

He  noted  with  calm  contempt  this  revival  of  fancifulness 
in  himself,  saying  that  he  had  reverted  to  the  sentimentalism 
of  his  early  life.  For  all  along  he  was  contemptuous  of 
himself  for  his  surrender.  Further  than  this  he  would  not 
look.  He  avoided  himself  as  persistently  as  he  avoided 
others. 

Yet  in  his  reading  he  did  not  turn  to  poetry  and  romance. 
He  read  Tolstoy,  Samuel  Butler  and  Thomas  Hardy.  He 
cared,  in  fact,  for  no  books  that  did  not  treat  solely  and 
squarely  of  men's  relations  to  one  another.  He  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  men ;  he  would  read  of  nothing  else. 

Months  passed,  with  Stacey  scarcely  aware  of  their 
smooth  succession.  He  was  like  a  man  asleep,  vaguely 
dreaming.  But  it  was  only  a  sleep,  a  semi-conscious  state 
into  which  one  sinks,  however  pleasantly,  when  tired.  Even 
in  those  moments  when  his  fancy  played  delightedly  over 
some  sudden  glimpse  of  beauty  he  was  at  bottom  dissatisfied 
— like  a  man  struggling  achingly  in  a  dream  to  enfold  and 
make  real  the  unsubstantial  vision  of  his  mistress. 

By  this  time  April  had  come.  The  Judas  trees  had  burned 
themselves  out,  the  fresh  pale  green  of  oaks  and  maples 
shimmered  against  the  dark  green  of  the  pines,  the  forests 
were  white  with  dog-wood  blossom,  and  on  the  lower  moun- 
tain slopes  masses  of  flame  azalea  made  the  ground  beneath 
the  trees  appear  on  fire.  Much  of  Stacey's  present  calm 
came  through  his  freedom  from  men ;  but  much,  too,  from 
the  sil'ent  satisfaction  of  his  starved  sense  of  beauty.  He 
read  less  now  and  went  on  longer  rides. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  237 

But  his  calm  was  insecure.  Something  impetuous  flut- 
tered within  him,  too  strong  for  this  life  of  fancy.  Mentally 
he  was  still  isolated;  physically  he  was  restless,  stirred 
tumultuously  by  the  spring,  called  to  union  with  the  warm, 
thrilling  life  all  about  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ABOUT  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  Stacey's  house  lay  the 
village  of  Meldrun,  straggling  along  one  side  of  a  small 
river,  which,  having  flowed  prettily  through  the  Carroll 
property,  its  steep  banks  massed  with  rhododendrons,  issued 
thence  into  practical  life,  like  a  business  man  after  a  con- 
descending hour  with  the  arts.  It  fell,  that  is,  into  rapids, 
the  water  power  from  which  was  utilized  by  a  small  hosiery 
factory.  Around  this  plant  had  grown  up  the  village,  con- 
sisting of  a  company  store  and  of  some  fifty  incredibly 
abject  huts,  leaning  at  strange  angles,  propped  up  anyhow, 
when  in  acute  danger  of  collapse,  by  logs;  the  effect  of  the 
whole  like  that  of  a  Vorticist  picture. 

The  beginning  of  many  of  Stacey's  rides  led  him  perforce 
through  this  ignoble  place.  The  brick  factory  itself  stood 
close  beside  the  road  he  must  follow,  on  a  narrow  strip  of 
ground  between  it  and  the  river,  and  through  the  broken  glass 
of  its  windows  slovenly  girls  leered  out  at  him  or  shouted  un- 
complimentary remarks,  and  he  could  see  the  pale,  hard- 
featured  faces  of  ten-  and  twelve-year  old  children.  If 
Stacey  was  walking  Duke,  he  would  wave  his  hat  as  he 
passed,  but  mostly  he  went  through  the  town  at  a  gallop. 
He  rode  well,  and  with  his  impassive,  rather  stern  face,  he 
must  have  looked  like  some  callous  medieval  condottiere. 
No  one  in  Meldrun  would  have  heard  of  condottieri,  but  the 
effect  would  be  the  same. 

Really,  however,  Stacey  was  far  from  impassive.  This 
misery  of  which  he  caught  a  glimpse  troubled  him  pro- 
foundly,— the  more  since,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  there  was 

238 


The  Lonely  Warrior  239 

nothing  he  could  do  about  it.  Yet,  oddly,  he  rode  through 
Meldrun  oftener  than  he  needed  to. 

The  house  of  the  factory  owner,  a  Mr.  Langdon,  stood  on 
the  crest  of  a  low  hill  some  distance  back  to  the  left  just 
before  the  village  began;  on  one  side  its  grounds  adjoined 
the  Carroll  property.  It  was  an  imposing  pillared  mansion 
built  as  a  plantation  house  before  the  Civil  War,  but  Stacey 
gazed  across  at  it  grimly  each  time  that  he  rode  out  through 
Meldrun.  However,  he  did  not  see  what  he  could  do  about 
this,  either.  He  tried  to  dismiss  both  house  and  village  from 
his  thoughts. 

Mr.  Langdon  himself,  a  pleasant-faced  elderly  man  with 
a  young  wife  and  three  small  daughters,  he  knew  by  sight 
and  nodded  to  curtly  when  they  happened  to  meet.  But,  for 
all  his  deliberate  isolation,  he  had  been  unable  not  to  pick 
up  a  few  scraps  of  gossip  here  and  there,  and  also  there  was 
Elijah,  an  unquenchable  fountain  of  information.  So 
Stacey  learned  that  the  Langdons  were  a  South  Carolina 
family;  that  they  had  formerly  owned  the  house  and  a 
thousand  acres  round  about — the  whole  valley,  indeed,  in- 
cluding the  property  that  was  now  Mr.  Carroll's ;  that  they 
had  lost  everything  during  the  Civil  War  and  emigrated  to 
Georgia ;  and  that  it  was  only  five  years  ago  that  the  present 
Mr.  Langdon  had  returned,  to  buy  back  the  family  home  and 
with  it  the  hosiery  factory  that  had  been  erected  by  some 
one  else.  Stacey  also  learned,  listening  distractedly  to  Eli- 
jah, that  there  was  no  love  for  the  factory  owner  among  his 
empl'oyees,  and  that  that  one  young  fellow — "yes,  suh,  he's 
bad,  Mistuh  Stacey!" — had  said  "how  he  was  goin'  to  get 
Mistuh  Langdon  one  day." 

"Well — and  then?"  thought  Stacey,  with  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  finding  the  intention  laudable  enough,  but  seeing 
no  solution  of  anything  in  it. 

But  one  night  toward  the  end  of  April  Stacey,  lying  awake 


240  The  Lonely  Warrior 

on  his  sleeping-porch,  became  aware  of  an  odd  glow  in  the 
moonless  night.  "A  fire,  of  course,"  he  thought,  as  he  got 
quickly  out  of  bed  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not  in  his  own 
house.  Houses  hereabouts  always  burned  down  sooner  or 
later,  what  with  the  general  carelessness  and  the  lack  of  any 
fire  department.  But  from  his  porch,  which  faced  west, 
Stacey  could  not  see  the  fire.  It  must  be  somewhere  to  the 
east,  since  it  reddened  the  near  side  of  the  shrubbery  on 
the  lawn  and  shone  fantastically  against  the  glossy  leaves  of 
a  tulip  tree. 

He  hurried  down  the  hall  to  the  other  end  of  the  house. 
But  tall  trees  and  the  distant  barrier  of  white  pines  that 
marked  the  Carroll  boundary  cut  off  his  view,  and  he  could 
make  out  only  that  the  fire  was  somewhere  in  Meldrun. 
The  confused  murmur  of  many  voices  reached  him. 

He  threw  on  some  clothes,  slipped  an  electric  flash-light 
into  his  pocket,  then  ran  downstairs.  Elijah  was  just  start- 
ing up  them.  The  old  man  was  breathless  with  haste  and 
excitement.  "It — it  am  Mistuh  Langdon's  house  'at's 
buhnin',  Mistuh  Stacey !"  he  stuttered.  "My  Lawd,  but  she 
shuah  is  buhnin',  suh!" 

For  a  moment  Stacey  was  rather  pleased  at  the  news; 
then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  feeling  so  childish  an  emo- 
tion. "All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  over  and  see  if  I 
can  help." 

Running  easily,  he  did  the  quarter  of  a  mile  in  three 
minutes,  and,  vaulting  a  fence,  came  out  upon  the  sloping 
lawn  of  the  Langdon  home.  It  was  covered  with  people 
shouting  and  moving  about  busily — mostly  workers  from  the 
factory,  and  strewn  with  such  household  goods  as  had  been 
rescued.  The  east  wing  of  the  house  was  burning  fiercely ; 
flames  lapped  the  roof  of  the  central  part,  and  bl'ack  smoke 
curled  out  of  its  upper  windows.  The  west  wing  was  not 
yet  burning,  though  its  blistered  paint  was  peeling  off  in 


The  Lonely  Warrior  241 

great  flakes,  and  little  spirals  of  smoke  rose  from  its  roof 
where  sparks  had  caught. 

Glancing  around  him  in  the  flickering  light,  Stacey  per- 
ceived a  young  woman  sitting  motionless  on  an  overturned 
mahogany  sideboard,  a  child  in  her  lap  and  two  others  cling- 
ing to  her  skirts.  He  went  up  to  her  quickly. 

"Mrs.  Langdon?"  he  said  stifHy.  "I'm  Stacey  Carroll. 
Please  tell  me  what  to  do."  He  spoke  stiffly  not  because  he 
was  unfriendly,  but  because  Mrs.  Langdon,  like  all  the  rest 
of  the  people  around  him,  seemed  far  away,  unrelated,  a 
mere  distant  mathematical  fact  about  which  no  emotion 
was  possible. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Carroll,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "I'm 
afraid  there's  nothing.  The  men  are  getting  out  what 
they  can." 

"Well,  I  can  help  with  that,"  he  replied. 

The  youngest  child,  a  girl  of  six,  was  crying  bitterly  in 
her  mother's  arms.  "Mitzi,  I  want  my  Mitzi !"  she  sobbed 
monotonously. 

"Who's  Mitzi?"  Stacey  asked  quickly.  "Some  pet— still 
in  the  house?" 

Mrs.  Langdon  smiled.  "Mitzi  is  only  Helen's  doll,"  she 
explained.  "We  forgot  it  in  the  hurry,  and  now  it's  too  late. 
Her  room  was  full  of  smoke  even  when  we  left  it." 

Stacey,  too,  smiled — ever  so  faintly  touched.  "I'll  go  and 
see  if  I  can  help  Mr.  Langdon,"  he  remarked.  "Where 
is  he?" 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  said  the  young  woman.  "He's  there 
at  the  west  end  of  the  house.  Please  don't  let  him  climb 
in  again.  He's  strained  his  ankle." 

A  ladder  had  been  placed  against  the  low  porch  at  the  end 
of  the  west  wing.  Stacey  scrambled  up  to  the  roof  of  the 
porch,  where  he  found  Mr.  Langdon  and  others  among  a 
heterogeneous  collection  of  household  goods  that  had  been 


242  The  Lonely  Warrior 

carried  out  through  an  open  second-story  window.  The  tin 
roof  was  uncomfortably  hot,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
smoke.  Mr.  Langdon  was  directing  the  Towering  to  the 
ground  of  a  sofa  and  pausing  between  times  to  toss  down 
less  fragile  belongings  as  they  were  brought  out  to  him 
through  the  window.  He  appeared  quite  calm  and  greeted 
Stacey  courteously. 

"Mrs.  Langdon  told  me  you  had  strained  your  ankle," 
Stacey  remarked.  "Hadn't  you  better  go  back  down  and 
let  me  tend  to  this  for  you  ?" 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you,  sir,"  Mr.  Langdon  replied,  "but 
I  am  all  right.  I  regret  that  I  cannot  go  inside  with 
the  others." 

"Well,  I  can  do  that,  anyway,"  said  Stacey  curtly,  and, 
disregarding  the  other's  protests,  went  quickly  over  to  the 
window  and  through  it. 

The  room  beyond  was  very  hot  but  not  yet  burning,  and 
there  was  not  even  much  smoke.  Three  or  four  men  were 
gathering  up  the  few  objects  still  remaining  in  it,  and  a 
frightened  negro  servant  was  standing  very  cl'ose  to  the 
window  and  directing  their  efforts.  No  one  paid  the  least 
attention  to  his  instructions,  but  a  youth,  coming  in  with  a 
mattress  from  a  room  beyond,  called:  "Come  on  in  theah, 
Joe !"  at  which  the  negro  shook  his  head  vigorously  and  the 
others  laughed.  Stacey  went  through  another  door. 

This  room  was  smoky  and  also  nearly  emptied  of  its 
furnishings.  But  three  doors  opened  out  of  it  and  beyond 
one  of  these  Stacey  found  himself  at  once  in  a  hot  choking 
mist.  Here  he  was  alone.  He  drew  out  his  flash-light,  and, 
his  eyes  smarting,  explored  the  room.  It  was  a  sitting- 
room,  he  saw, — Mrs.  Langdon's  probably, — and  he  could  be 
of  some  use  after  all ;  for  here  hung  a  small  Meissonier  and 
there  on  a  table  was  a  vase — "Sevres,"  he  remarked 
hoarsely.  "Better  than — mattresses."  He  gathered  up  the 


The  Lonely  Warrior  243 

vase,  jerked  the  picture  from  the  wall,  and  stumbled,  cough- 
ing, from  the  room. 

Just  outside  the  door  he  ran  into  the  young  man  of  the 
mattress.  "Here !"  said  Stacey  wheezing,  "take  this — care- 
fully— to  Mr.  Langdon,  will  you  ?" 

"Shuah !"  said  the  young  man,  who  was  chewing  tobacco 
steadily.  "You  be'n  in  theah  ?"  he  inquired,  waving  his  hand 
at  the  door. 

Stacey  nodded. 

"Well,  wait  a  minute  en'  I'll  go  back  in  with  you  when  I've 
toted  these  out." 

"I'll — have  to — wait  a  minute,"  Stacey  replied,  and  the 
young  man  departed. 

Presently  he  returned,  and  together  the  two  went  back 
into  the  sitting-room  for  more  loot,  emerging  dripping  with 
sweat  and  half  choked.  Yet  Stacey  was  beginning  to 
enjoy  himself. 

They  tried  the  other  two  rooms,  the  doors  of  which 
Stacey  had  already  noticed.  From  the  first  they  got — with 
difficulty — a  fine  rug,  slightly  scorched,  and  a  mahogany 
stand.  The  second  seemed  impossible — a  mass  of  black 
smoke. 

"What's  in  there,  I  wonder?"  said  Stacey  hoarsely. 

"I  dunno,"  the  young  fellow  replied.  "We  mout  ask  that 
nigger,  Joe." 

Only  two  or  three  men  were  left  now  even  in  the  room 
next  the  porch,  and  Joe  was  definitely  on  the  point  of  getting 
out  of  the  window.  However,  he  paused  for  an  instant  to 
answer  the  question. 

"That  theah  room,  that's  Miss  Helen's -bedroom.  Don* 
you  go  theah,  suh,"  he  said,  and  vanished. 

Stacey  reflected,  with  a  half  smil'e,  then  hurried  back,  his 
laconic  acquaintance  still  at  his  side.  Voices  shouted  at 
them  from  the  porch. 


244  The  Lonely  Warrior 

The  house  was  a  furnace  now.  There  was  a  heavy  roar- 
ing in  the  air  and  every  little  while  the  sound  of  something 
crashing  down.  Nevertheless,  Stacey  plunged  into  the  bed- 
room, and  so,  too,  did  his  companion.  It  was  unbearable, 
but,  at  least,  one  could  see;  a  vivid  flickering  light  shot 
through  the  smoke.  After  a  moment  Stacey  made  out  the 
crib,  dived  for  a  blackened,  almost  unrecognizable  object 
that  lay  on  the  smoldering  sheets,  and  leaped  back  just  as  a 
beam  fell,  with  a  shower  of  sparks,  from  the  ceiling.  To- 
gether he  and  his  companion  fled  back  to  the  room  next  the 
porch  and  leaned,  coughing  and  choking,  against  the  win- 
dow. The  room  was  empty. 

"Wh-what  did  you  get?"  Stacey  asked  hoarsely  at  last. 

"A  hoss,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  grin,  holding  up 
a  toy. 

"I  got  a  doll,"  said  Stacey  weakly. 

And  all  at  once,  there  in  this  burning  room,  it  was  as 
though  something  snapped  within  him.  The  strange  barrier 
was  down.  The  world  came  rushing  up  to  meet  him.  He 
burst  into  a  helpless  fit  of  laughter. 

"Do  I — do  I  look  as  wild  as  you  do  ?"  he  gasped,  gazing  at 
the  other's  grimy  face  and  singed  hair. 

"You  shuah  look  pretty  bad,"  said  the  young  man. 

Stacey  pulled  himself  together.  "I  should  say  we'd  better 
get  out  of  here,"  he  remarked. 

"I  reckon  we  had." 

They  scrambled  out  over  the  smoking  porch  and  down  the 
ladder,  surprised  at  the  anxious  group  awaiting  them. 

Mr.  Langdon  seized  Stacey's  hand.  "Thank  God,  you're 
down  safely,  Mr.  Carroll!"  he  said.  "We  were  worried, 
sir.  You  shouldn't  have  stayed  so  long.  You're  not  burnt  ? 
Your  clothes.  .  .  .  But  the  things  you  saved  were  very 
precious  to  me.  That  Meissonier  .  .  ." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  245 

Stacey  laughed.  "Glad  to  be  of  some  use,"  he  replied 
easily.  "Where  is  Mrs.  Langdon?" 

"Back  here  out  of  the  heat — just  a  few  steps,"  said  the 
other,  and  led  the  way,  limping. 

The  crowd  had  grown  larger  during  Stacey's  absence. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  small  motor  cars,  too,  on  the  lawn, 
and  the  lights  of  others  standing  in  the  road,  a  hundred 
yards  distant,  were  visible. 

Mrs.  Langdon  uttered  an  exclamation  at  Stacey's  appear- 
ance. But  he  gave  her  no  chance  to  thank  him. 

"Helen,"  he  called,  "is  this  Mitzi  ?"  and  held  out  the  burnt 
blackened  doll. 

The  child  seized  it,  with  a  scream  of  joy.  "Mitzi !  Mitzi !" 
she  cried. 

Mrs.  Langdon  stared  helplessly.  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  risked  your  life  to  save — that  doll,  Mr.  Carroll?" 
she  demanded,  half  laughing,  half  crying. 

"Oh,  no,  there  wasn't  any  danger— except  of  choking," 
Stacey  replied. 

However,  it  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that  to  run  risks 
blithely  for  a  doll  was  just  what  he  had  done,  and  that  this 
was  somehow — he  didn't  know— connected  with  the  odd 
change  of  heart  he  was  feeling. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "and  my  friend  saved  a 
horse!  Where's  he  gone?" 

"I  got  the  hoss,  Mistuh  Stacey,"  said  Elijah,  coming  for- 
ward with  the  toy.  "Mistuh  Jim  Bradley,  he  give  it  to  me  to 
bring.  He's  done  gone,  Mistuh  Bradley  is." 

"That  was  sweet  of  him !"  Mrs.  Langdon  exclaimed. 

"What  the  dickens  did  he  go  for?"  Stacey  remarked 
regretfully.  Jim  Bradley?  He'd  heard  the  name 
somewhere. 

"You  must  come  over  to  my  place  for  the  night,"  he 


246  The  Lonely  Warrior 

observed.  "No,  no,  it  would  be  silly  to  go  into  town  when 
I've  all  those  empty  rooms,"  he  added  quickly,  as  Mr.  Lang- 
don  attempted  to  protest.  "And  you'll  want  to  get  back  here 
early  in  the  morning  to  see  to  things." 

He  was  insistent,  and  they,  no  doubt,  were  very  tired.  At 
any  rate,  they  yielded. 

"A  cousin  of  mine  has  brought  his  Ford  around,"  said 
Mr.  Langdon.  "He'll  take  us  over  presently.  But — " 

"Good!  Then  Elijah  and  I  will  cut  across  and  get  things 
ready,"  Stacey  concluded. 

Back  at  the  house,  Stacey  plunged  into  a  bath,  then 
hurriedly  put  on  other  clothes.  But  all  at  once  he  paused  in 
his  dressing  and  uttered  an  exclamation.  Jim  Bradley? 
Of  course !  It  was  the  name  of  the  young  man  who,  Elijah 
said,  had  threatened  to  "get"  Mr.  Langdon.  Stacey  smiled, 
then  frowned. 

Before  long  the  Langdons  arrived,  with  a  car-load  of 
rescued  clothes.  Stacey  welcomed  them  cordially. 

"Elijah  has  your  rooms  ready,"  he  said,  "and  there's  a 
bathroom  next  one  of  them." 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Mrs.  Langdon.  "I'll  put  the 
children  to  bed  and  leave  you  my  husband  meanwhile." 

He  helped  them  upstairs  with  their  things,  looked  down 
with  a  smile  at  Helen,  as  her  father  laid  her,  fast  asleep,  on 
the  bed,  Mitzi  still  clutched  in  her  arms,  then  returned  with 
Mr.  Langdon  to  the  big  living-room. 

They  sat  down,  and  Stacey  gazed  at  his  guest  with 
interest.  A  simple  likable  man,  with  a  kindly  face,  and 
extremely  well-bred. 

"I  trust,"  said  Stacey  pleasantly,  as  he  offered  him  a 
cigarette,  "that  you  carried  adequate  insurance." 

Mr.  Langdon  smiled  faintly.  "About  enough  to  cover 
the  first  mortgage,"  he  returned  quietly. 

Stacey  paused  in  the  act  of  lighting  a  match,  and  stared. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  247 

"The  whole  investment  was  a  mistake,  sir,"  his  guest 
continued  mildly.  "For  sentimental  reasons  I  am  sorry  to 
lose  the  house,  but  it  was  a  burden.  The  factory  has  never 
paid,  and  the  rate  of  interest  banks  hereabouts  demand  on 
loans  is  ruinous — ten  to  twelve  per  cent.  I  shall  sell  out 
for  what  I  can  get  and  go  back  to  Macon.  Forgive  my 
troubling  you  with  such  mention  of  personal  affairs." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  am  interested — and  sorry,"  Stacey 
replied  sincerely.  He  fell  silent  for  a  moment.  So  the  vil- 
lain of  the  piece  must  be  sought  elsewhere?  Among  the 
bankers?  Stacey  shook  his  head.  Not  there,  either.  He 
pulled  himself  back  to  his  duties  as  host. 

After  a  time  Mrs.  Langdon  came  down.  She  had  put  on 
another  dress,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  coquetry  in  her 
manner  toward  Stacey.  Both  she  and  her  husband  were 
behaving  like  good  sports,  he  thought.  Elijah  brought  in 
coffee  and  sandwiches,  and  the  three  talked  pleasantly  to- 
gether for  half  an  hour. 

Nevertheless,  Stacey  was  relieved  when  his  guests  went 
up  to  bed.  Somehow  he  seemed  to  have  broken  free;  he 
was  no  longer  a  pacing  animal  in  a  cage ;  and  he  wanted  to 
think  things  out.  He  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece  and 
gazed  off  across  the  room  with  grave  abstracted  eyes. 

His  absurd  rescue  of  that  wretched  doll — why  had  so 
trivial  an  act  seemed  to  shake  him  out  of  a  long  lethargy? 
The  answer  leaped  up  at  him  almost  at  once.  Not  the 
kindness  but  the  sheer  futility  of  his  act — just  this  was  what 
had  struck  him  as  a  heartening  revelation.  He  had  risked 
his  life  for  a  doll!  Jim  Bradley  had  sworn  to  "get"  an 
enemy,  then  had  gone  through  flames  to  save  his  enemy's 
household  goods! 

For,  thinking  swiftly,  Stacey  perceived  now  that  he  had 
not  told  the  truth  when  he  had  asserted  passionately  to  Mrs. 
Latimer  that  he  found  the  world  chaos — with  no  scheme, 


248  The  Lonely  Warrior 

nothing.  What  reason  for  anger  in  that  ?  No,  as  a  youth,  he 
had  assumed  the  world  to  be  built  upon  an  agreeable  scheme, 
and  then  afterward,  all  unknown  to  himself,  he  had  fancied  it 
an  evil  scheme.  It  was  neither.  It  was  what  he  had  insin- 
cerely called  it — chaos,  a  grovelling  incoherent  assemblage 
of  facts.  The  thought  of  greed — he  had  been  obsessed  by  it 
just  because  he  had  seen  it  as  something  permanent,  con- 
sistent— and  successful.  Pshaw !  An  ugly  thing,  greed,  but 
pitiful  and  futile,  like  everything  else.  Where  did  it  get 
any  one?  The  greedy  man  was  a  man  struggling  for  hap- 
piness. Well,  did  he  achieve  happiness?  Hate  died  out  of 
Stacey.  You  could  not  hate  what  was  a  failure. 

So  much  he  made  out  in  a  series  of  flashes.  Much  more, 
that  lay  behind,  was  obscurer.  He  dropped  into  an  arm- 
chair and  sat  there,  motionless,  for  a  long  time,  reflecting 
intensely.  Sometimes  he  would  spring  to  his  feet  and  pace 
up  and  down  the  room  for  a  while,  and  light  a  fresh  cigar- 
ette or  pause  to  finger  abstractedly  some  vase  or  book, 
then  return  to  his  chair. 

It  was  not,  of  course,  he  understood,  this  one  evening's 
performance  that  had  shocked  him  into  sanity — or  what  he 
hoped  was  sanity.  This  long  isolation  from  men,  from  a 
world  interested  only  in  economics,  had  calmed  him ;  for  in 
it  his  youthful  gift  of  fancy,  choked  back  for  so  long,  had 
been  let  loose  again.  You  could  not  choke  things  back 
without  suffering  for  it.  ...  He  had  been  like  a  man  living 
in  compartments — first  in  one,  then  in  another.  That  was 
wrong.  He  ought  to  live  wholly,  with  all  of  himself.  .  .  . 
What  he  had  been  in  his  youth — that,  too,  he  still  was. 
Nothing  in  one  ever  died. 

It  was  as  far  as  Stacey  could  get — and  this  only  slowly, 
with  difficulty.  But  he  could,  he  thought,  go  back  to  the 
real  world  now  and  start  over  again. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

STACEY  had  left  Vernon  in  December;  it  was  on  an  after- 
noon in  May  that  he  returned  to  it.  Tulips  bloomed  gaily 
in  well  tended  beds  along  the  boulevard  at  which  he  gazed 
from  his  taxi.  A  fresh  spring  smell  was  in  the  air.  The 
city  was  at  its  best. 

Stacey  looked  at  it  inquiringly,  almost  as  though  it  were 
new  to  him.  And  in  a  sense  it  was  new;  for  he  did  not 
feel  toward  it  in  any  way  that  he  had  felt  before.  He  saw 
the  business  buildings  standing  angularly  against  the  blue 
sky,  the  handsome  residences  of  varied  architecture,  the 
wide  streets  that  were  rivers  of  motor  cars,  and  he  noted, 
as  often,  that  esthetically  the  city  was  faulty  and  aspiring, 
and  that  socially  it  was  energetic  and  confident.  He  re- 
ceived again  an  impression  of  people  striving  relentlessly  to 
attain  certain  things  and  clinging  to  them  desperately  when 
attained.  But  he  did  not  feel  for  these  characteristics  either 
admiration  or  disapproval,  affection  or  distaste.  What  he 
did  feel  was  curiosity,  because  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
knew  very  little  about  Vernon  really,  and  an  odd  touch  of 
pity.  For  the  first  time  it  struck  him  as  rather  pathetic  to 
care  so  hard  about  motor  cars  and  bathrooms  and  servants. 
Here  were  wealthy  men  riding  triumphantly  in  imported 
Rolls-Royces,  and  poor  men  riding  in  Fords,  or  walking,  and 
hating  the  rich  men.  What  a  to-do !  Oh,  well,  it  couldn't 
be  helped!  Stacey  supposed.  Economics  were  the  order 
of  the  day. 

Presently  he  reached  his  father's  house.  "Hello,  Parker," 
he  said  to  the  surprised  servant  who  opened  the  door. 
"I'm  back,  you  see, — and  without  so  much  as  sending 

249 


250  The  Lonely  Warrior 

a  wire.  How  are  you?  Mr.  Carroll  well?  Take  this  bag 
up  to  my  room  for  me,  will  you,  please  ?  I  certainly  do  need 
a  bath.  Oh,  yes,  I've  had  I'unch,  thanks." 

An  hour  later  he  strolled  down  to  the  dining-room  for  a 
whiskey  and  soda,  then,  glass  in  hand,  into  the  library. 
And  there,  sitting  with  a  book  in  a  high-backed  chair,  was 
Catherine. 

"Why,  Catherine!"  Stacey  exclaimed,  going  toward  her 
quickly  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

She  had  risen  swiftly,  as  surprised  as  he.  She  was  wear- 
ing a  black  dress,  but  with  a  wide  pointed  collar  of  white 
lace  at  her  bare  throat.  She  looked  firm  and  grave  and 
slender. 

"Well,  isn't  this  jolly?"  he  said,  shaking  her  hand  cor- 
dially. "What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"Didn't  you  get  my  last  letter?"  she  asked,  with  some 
embarrassment.  "I  think  your  father  wrote  you,  too." 

"I  did  get  your  letter  and  one  from  father,"  he  replied, 
"just  before  I  left  Pickens,  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I've 
brought  them  back  unopened  in  my  bag.  I  thought  it  would 
be  so  much  nicer  to  talk  with  you  both.  It  sounds  rude  and 
unappreciative,  but  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way."  She  was 
still  gazing  at  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  distressed  about 
something  and  as  shy  as  ever.  "Sit  down,  do !"  he  said. 

She  obeyed.  "You  see,"  she  began  slowly,  "I  didn't  think 
you'd  be  back  yet.  And  a  little  while  ago,  when  the  rent 
period  on  our  house  was  up,  your  father  said — he's  been 
so  awfully  kind  to  us  always — and  he  said — " 

"Catherine,"  Stacey  interrupted,  "it's  oppressive  to  see 
any  one  with  as  much  to  say  as  you  always  have,  so  unable 
to  say  it."  (She  bit  her  lip.)  "My  father  said:  'I  insist 
on  your  coming  to  live  here.  It's  a  big  place  and  I  need 
a  housekeeper.' " 

But,  though  he  laughed,  Stacey  did  not  feel  mirthful.    He 


The  Lonely  Warrior  251 

had  a  sudden  perception  of  how  lonely  his  father  had  been, 
how  lonely  Catherine  had  been. 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  "that  was  what  he  said.  And  I  was 
weak  enough  to  accept,  though  I  knew  it  was  only  kindness 
on  his  part.  But  I  was  going  away  when  you  came  back, 
Stacey." 

"Oh,"  he  remarked,  "you  were !" 

Again  she  bit  her  lip.  "I  mean,"  she  added  quickly,  "that 
we  might  have  been  in  your  way  and — " 

"Catherine,"  said  Stacey,  getting  up  and  standing  beside 
her,  "I  think  your  being  here  is  delightful.  I  should  feel 
very  badly  if  you  went  away.  There's  my  hand  on  it." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  puzzled  manner  and  thanked  him, 
rather  unsteadily,  because  he  had  been  so  cordial.  A  little 
of  her  shyness  had  vanished  when  he  sat  down  again. 

"You  came  back,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.  "I'd  ridden  everywhere  there  was  to  ride; 
so  all  at  once  I  decided  I'd  come  back  to  the  world."  And 
he  became  silent.  "Where  are  the  boys?"  he  demanded 
suddenly. 

"At  school',"  she  replied,  "but  it's  four  now.  They'll  be 
here  any  minute." 

And  only  a  little  later  they  did  come  in.  Jack  was  unre- 
strained from  the  first,  but  Carter,  probably  coached  by 
his  mother,  was  impressively  correct  until  he  caught  sight 
of  Stacey  and  threw  reserve  to  the  winds. 

The  library  echoed  with  noise  and  there  was  a  touch  of 
color  in  Catherine's  cheeks  when  at  five  o'clock  Mr.  Carroll 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  and  stood  at  the  threshold, 
looking  in. 

"Well,  son !"  he  exclaimed. 

Stacey  sprang  up.  "Surprise  party,  dad!"  he  remarked, 
shaking  his  father's  hand.  "Quite  a  good  one,  don't 
you  think  ?" 


252  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"I  should  say  so!"  Mr.  Carroll  replied,  while  Catherine 
quieted  the  boys  and  made  them  sit  beside  her  with  a  book. 
"How  was  everything  down  there  ?  Did  you  ride  over  that 
Garett  Creek  path  you  and  I  found  once  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stacey,  "there  and  everywhere  else." 

After  the  initial  burst  of  cordiality  they  fell  silent,  finding 
little  to  say  to  each  other.  How  estranged  they  were! 
Stacey  thought.  The  murmur  of  the  children's  voices  and 
the  subdued  sound  of  Catherine's  words  explaining  a  story 
were  comforting — to  Stacey  certainly,  to  his  father  almost 
as  certainly — filling  in  the  emptiness. 

Mr.  Carroll  called  Jack  to  him — Jack  seemed  to  be  his 
favorite — and  joked  with  the  child  much  more  naturally 
than  he  could  joke  with  Stacey.  As  for  Stacey,  he  talked 
with  Catherine  and  Carter. 

After  a  while  Catherine  announced  to  the  boys  that  it  was 
half -past  five  and  they  must  go  wash  and  get  ready  for 
dinner. 

"Look  here,  Catherine !"  remarked  Mr.  Carroll.  "Do  let 
them  eat  with  us  to-night." 

"Yes !    Oh,  yes,  mother !"  they  cried  in  unison. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said  to  them,  "do  as 
mother  says,"  and  they  went  out  slowly. 

"No,  please !"  she  replied  to  Mr.  Carroll.  "It's  awfully — 
good  of  you,  but  I'm  sure  it's  better  this  way." 

Mr.  Carroll  frowned.  "Idea  of  Catherine's,"  he  said, 
appealing  to  his  son.  "Boys  must  eat  at  six — an  hour  ahead 
of  us.  I'd  like  to  have  them  at  table  with  me.  Can't  you  do 
anything  about  it  ?" 

Catherine  was  shy  but  firm.  "I'd  rather  they  wouldn't, 
please,"  she  said. 

Stacey  laughed.  "Lord !  no,  I  can't  do  anything  about  it !" 
he  returned.  "You  have  my  full  moral  support,  but  what's 
the  use  ?  Catherine's  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar." 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

His  father  laughed  with  him  and  spread  out  his  hands  in 
surrender.  Perhaps  he  rather  liked  being  successfully 
opposed.  At  any  rate,  there  was  less  constraint  between 
him  and  Stacey  after  this.  If  in  no  other  way,  Stacey 
thought,  they  could  at  least  be  united  in  a  league  of  men 
against  women.  When  Catherine  went  down  to  sit  at  table 
while  her  sons  ate,  the  two  men  talked  quite  freely,  though 
chiefly  of  her. 

"You  don't  mind  my  asking  her  and  the  boys  to  come 
over  here?"  Mr.  Carroll  asked  apologetically. 

Stacey  was  touched.  "Good  heavens,  no !"  he  exclaimed. 
"It's  jolly  for  us  and  better  for  them.  It  was  awfully  good 
of  you,  sir." 

"No,  no!"  said  his  father  gruffly.  "Purely  selfish. 
Brightens  the  house  up.  Long  time  since  there  were  chil- 
dren here.  You  and  Julie  would  grow  up,  confound  you !" 
he  added  wrathfully. 

Stacey  laughed  a  little  at  this.  "Couldn't  help  it,  dad," 
he  replied.  "I  regret  it  as  much  as  you  do." 

"Fine  girl,  Catherine!"  Mr.  CarrolP  went  on,  after  a 
moment.  "I  like  her  honesty  and  lack  of  nonsense.  Some 
women  would  have  refused  to  come  because  damned  im- 
pertinent people  might  talk.  They  will,  I  suppose,  having 
the  kind  of  minds  they've  got." 

Stacey  opened  his  eyes  wide.  "I  never  thought  of  that," 
he  said.  "But  I  should  say,"  he  added,  "that  if  they  do, 
why,  let  them." 

Mr.  Carroll  nodded  emphatically.  "Let  them,"  he 
assented. 

So  Stacey  and  his  father  were  also  incongruously  united 
in  a  revolutionary  league  against  society. 

"But  do  you  know  what  Catherine  does,  confound  her !" 
Mr.  Carroll  added.  "Insists  on  paying  me  the  same  amount 
as  it  cost  her  to  five  in  that  other  house !  Says  she  won't 


254  The  Lonely  Warrior 

stay  otherwise!"  He  laughed,  half  admiringly,  half  in 
exasperation. 

Stacey  enjoyed  himself,  in  a  mixed  way,  at  dinner. 
Indeed,  he  was  never  really  bored.  He  had  loved  life  once 
and  hated  it  later.  Indifference  was  impossible  to  him, 
however  much  his  attitude  toward  things  altered.  He 
looked  across  the  table  at  Catherine,  studying  her  firm  grave 
face  over  which  her  grief  had  lowered  an  intangible  some- 
thing like  a  veil,  an  expression  of  reserve,  sweetness  and 
knowledge.  At  bottom  Stacey  was  rather  afraid  of 
Catherine.  And,  while  conversation  ran  on  well  enough,  he 
studied  his  father's  face,  too.  What  an  odd  trio  they  made ! 
he  thought.  And  he  noted  that  his  father's  expression  was 
stern  to  harshness  when  Mr.  Carroll  talked  of  general  sub- 
jects such  as  the  present  Democratic  administration  or 
Article  X  of  the  League  of  Nations,  but  softened  when  he 
spoke  to  Stacey  or  Catherine  of  individual  things  or  people. 

Just  at  present  he  was  talking  about  the  state  of  the  whole 
country,  and,  as  the  subject  was  especially  large,  he  looked 
especially  fierce,  his  white  eyebrows  meeting  in  a  frown 
above  his  fine  nose. 

"The  country's  had  enough  of  Wilson  and  his  policies," 
he  was  saying.  "You  can  go  way  back  to  his  action  in 
knuckling  down  to  the  Brotherhood  of  Locomotive  Engi- 
neers if  you  want  to  get  at  the  start  of  the  whole  trouble. 
A  toady!  A  trimmer!  A  schoolmaster!  Yes,  sir!  The 
world  has  taken  Wilson's  measure  pretty  well  by  now." 
Mr.  Carroll  drank  a  swallow  of  claret,  then  set  his  glass 
down  with  a  bump.  "Then  the  Armistice!"  he  burst  out 
again.  "Look  at  that !  All  Wilson  with  his  idiotic  Fourteen 
Points  and  his  'Peace  without  Victory !'  There  we  had  the 
Germans  on  the  run.  Two  weeks'  time — a  month — and  our 
boys  and  the  Allies  would  have  marched  into  Berlin,  and 
then  we'd  have  known  who  won  the  war." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  255 

Mr.  Carroll  did  not  stop  here  by  any  means.  He  con- 
tinued, sweeping  along  like  a  surf-rider  on  the  flood  of 
his  indictments. 

But  Stacey  lost  track.  He  remembered,  as  something  out 
of  a  dim  different  past,  that  he  had  countered  this  same 
argument  in  regard  to  the  Armistice  at  dinner  that  first  night 
of  his  return,  and  that  he  had  then  apparently  convinced 
his  father.  However,  this  awakened  no  antagonism  in 
Stacey.  He  merely  felt  amused.  Somehow,  in  some  way 
not  yet  clear  to  himself,  he  had  most  certainly  changed.  He 
was  recalled  to  the  present  by  the  vigor  with  which  his 
father  pronounced  the  word  "Bolshevism." 

"That's  the  whole  trouble — Bolshevism!  The  country's 
rotten  with  it,  and  will  be  until  we  get  a  sane  business 
administration  and  put  labor  and  radicalism  in  their  place." 

Mr.  Carroll  was  carving  a  chicken  at  the  time — he 
scorned  effeminate  households  where  the  carving  was  done 
in  the  butler's  pantry — and  he  thrust  the  fork  deep  down 
across  the  breast-bone  of  the  chicken  as  though  he  were 
impaling  Lenin,  Gompers,  Haywood,  and  Daniels  all 
at  once. 

But  a  moment  later,  and  quite  instinctively,  he  laid  the 
liver  and  the  heart  beside  a  drumstick  on  Stacey's  plate ;  and 
at  this  Stacey  was  touched,  for  he  knew  that,  like  himself, 
his  father  had  retained  a  boyish  love  of  the  giblets.  Often 
he  had  seen  his  father  on  looking  through  the  ice-box  of  a 
Sunday  night  turn  around  and  hold  out  with  a  triumphant 
smile  a  plate  of  chicken  where  reposed,  brown,  crisp  and 
indigestible,  a  cold  gizzard  and  perhaps  a  heart. 

So :  "I  think  you  are  very  likely  right,  sir,"  said  Stacey. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  cost  him  little  to  say  this ;  for  he 
found  himself  quite  without  interest  in  Bolshevism,  the 
labor  problem,  or  the  Democratic  maladministration. 

As  for  Mr.  Carroll,  he  gave  his  son  a  pleased,  rather  sur- 


1256  The  Lonely  Warrior 

prised  smile,  and  presently  dropped  all  problems.  But 
Catherine  looked  across  at  Stacey  with  a  strange  startled 
expression. 

After  dinner  they  went  into  the  library  and  Catherine 
poured  coffee. 

"I  wish,  Catherine,"  Stacey  exclaimed,  with  a  touch  of 
exasperation,  "that  you  wouldn't  glance  at  me  in  such  a 
confoundedly  apprehensive  way,  as  though  you  were  afraid 
I  might  object  to  your  pouring  coffee  here !  I  like  it.  How 
many  times  must  I  tell  you?" 

"Very  well,  Stacey,  I'll  try  to  be  bold,"  she  replied,  a  faint 
smile  relieving  the  gravity  of  her  face. 

Mr.  Carroll  laughed  approvingly.  "You're  going  to  be  a 
great  help  to  me,  son,"  he  said. 

But  Parker  came  in  to  tell  Mr.  Carroll  that  Long  Dis- 
tance was  calling  him  on  the  'phone;  so  Stacey  and  Cath- 
erine were  left  by  themselves  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Any  one  not  knowing  my  father  well  might  think,  to  hear 
him  talk  of  Bolshevism  and  labor,  that  he  was  harsh," 
Stacey  observed.  "He's  not.  He's  not  even  bigoted,  really." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  he's  not !"  Catherine  exclaimed.  "He's  the 
kindest  man  I've  ever  known." 

"Yes.  You  see,  partly  it's  because  he  himself  has  worked 
all  his  life  like  three  ordinary  men  and,  conceding  the  sys- 
tem, has  made  his  fortune  honestly.  It  isn't  merely  that  he 
wants  to  hold  what  he's  acquired.  It's  rather  that  uncon- 
sciously he  feels  any  attack  on  the  system  as  an  attack  on 
his  own  integrity."  Stacey  paused,  with  a  frown.  "It's 
something  even  more  than  that,"  he  continued  slowly.  "If 
a  man  has  all  his  life  played  the  game  vigorously  and  loyally 
according  to  the  rules,  he  doesn't  at  sixty-one  want  to  be  told 
that  the  rules  were  all  wrong.  That  would  be  knocking 
everything  from  under  him.  Father  has  to  believe  that  what 
is  is  right,  or  where  would  he  be  ?  Right  and  wrong  mean  a 


The  Lonely  Warrior  257 

great  deal  to  him — he's  old-fashioned  in  that.  And  then,  I 
must  say,  it  is  a  slovenly  world  at  present  for  a  man  with 
clean-cut  ideas  to  look  out  on.  A  bedraggled  tattered  place, 
with  cocky  young  chaps  sitting  in  literary  offices  and  blithely 
announcing  every  week  that  something  else  is  wrong  with 
things  in  general.  Not  that  there  isn't  enough  that's 
wrong,  and  the  more  truth  that's  told  about  it,  the  bet- 
ter; but  a  lot  of  the  complaining  is  either  whining  or 
just  rotten  cleverness.  Fancy  being  clever  about  a  cy- 
clone— or  the  Judgment  Day!"  He  paused  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  "Father's  an  out-and-out  idealist,"  Stacey  con- 
cluded. "He's  got  to  believe  passionately  in  something,  and 
he's  too  old  to  believe  in  something  new.  Besides,  nothing 
new  is  clearly  presented  to  one." 

"Yes,"  Catherine  said,  "that  is  very  clear  and  fair, 
Stacey."  But  the  look  that  her  dark  eyes  gave  him  was  full 
of  perplexity. 

"Oh,"  he  observed  lightly,  "I  know!  You  think  I'm  a 
reformed  character.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  'Nothing  of  me  that 
doth  fade,  but  doth  suffer  a  sea-change  into  something  rich 
and  strange.'  "  He  laughed  ironically. 

And  Catherine  was  much  too  shy,  as  he  knew  she  would 
be,  to  pursue  the  subject. 

When  later  he  went  upstairs  he  stood  for  a  long  time 
before  the  open  window  of  his  study.  "It  can't  be  done,"  he 
said  to  himself  at  last.  "You  can't  look  at  the  world  as  a 
whole  and  stay  sane.  Because  there  isn't  any  such  world. 
That's  a  nightmare  of  ogre  words.  Bolshevism,  labor 
problem,  greed,  reaction, — they're  merely  words.  All  that 
there  truly  is  is  a  lot  of  puny  little  men  like  myself,  dream- 
ing dreams — mostly  bad  ones." 


CHAPTER  XX 

Ax  nine  the  next  morning  Stacey  drove  down  town  with 
his  father.  Perhaps  no  real  intimacy  was  possible  between 
them,  since  they  had  hardly  a  thought  or  a  belief  in  common, 
but  they  were,  simply  through  a  heightened  mutual  friendli- 
ness, closer  together  than  they  had  been  for  six  years. 
Stacey  went  up  to  his  father's  pleasant  office  and  watched 
Mr.  Carroll  sit  down  in  his  swivel-chair,  light  a  cigar,  and 
open  his  letters  with  a  paper-knife. 

Stacey  smiled.  "I've  sometimes  wondered,  sir,"  he  said, 
"why  at  sixty  or  thereabouts  you — " 

"Here!  Here!  Stop  it!"  Mr.  Carroll  interrupted 
ruefully. 

"Well,  anyway  I've  wondered  why  you  didn't  retire  and 
just  amuse  yourself,  since  you've  certainly  earned  a  rest. 
But—" 

"Retire  ?  Nonsense !  Work, — that's  all  a  man's  good  for. 
Got  to  stay  in  harness.  Soon  as  he  gets  out  of  it  he  goes 
to  pieces." 

"H'm,"  said  Stacey  banteringly,  "that's  the  theory,  of 
course.  But  just  look  around  you.  Here  you  come  down 
to  a  bright  jolly  office  entirely  cut  off  from  the  home,  and 
open  nice  crisp  new  letters,  and  call  in — presently,  when  I 
stop  bothering  you — a  fresh  clean  stenographer,  and  you 
watch  the  blue  smoke  of  a  good  cigar  curl  up  across  the 
sunlight — no,  sir,  you  can't  fool  me  with  any  talk  about  duty 
and  the  rest.  Poetry!  Sheer  poetry!  Men's  ingenuous 
little  romance!" 

.  Mr.  Carroll  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed. 
I  258 


The  Lonely  Warrior  259 

"American  business  men, — why  they're  our  real  leisure 
class !"  Stacey  concluded. 

But  at  this  his  father  protested.  "I  worked  ten  hours  a 
day  and  sometimes  twelve — hard — from  the  time  I  was 
eighteen  till  past  forty,"  he  observed  soberly. 

"I  know  you  did,  sir,"  Stacey  assented  respectfully.  "I'm 
not  talking  about  that  epoch  but  about  our  own.  The  young 
business  men  I  know — and  I  don't  mean  the  clerks,  people 
working  on  a  salary,  but  the  men  who  will  be  rich  one  day 
from  business — how  about  them?  They  get  down  to  their 
offices  anywhere  from  nine-thirty  to  ten,  and  they  waste  a 
good  half-hour  before  they  begin  to  work,  and  they  play  a 
lot  even  when  they  think  they're  working;  then  they  take 
an  hour  and  a  half  off  at  the  club  for  lunch;  at  four  or 
thereabouts,  weather  permitting,  they  motor  out  to  the 
country-club  and  play  nine  holes  of  golf ;  then  they  go  back 
to  a  nice,  different,  clean  house,  with  all  the  housekeeping 
tended  to  by  their  pretty  wives.  Oh,  it's  a  hard  life !" 

"You're  right,"  the  older  man  growled.  "It's  a  damned 
lazy  life,  and  I  don't  know  what  the  country's  coming  to  if 
it  keeps  on." 

"Now  really,"  Stacey  suggested,  "can  you  blame  a  labor- 
ing man  if  he  kicks  ?" 

But  at  this  Mr.  Carroll's  mouth  shut  in  a  tight  line.  "I'm 
against  loafing  anywhere  in  any  class,"  he  said  sternly. 
"The  laborer's  got  his  job  and  he  loafs  on  it;  the  young 
business  man  has  his  and  he  loafs.  I  disapprove  of  both." 

"Yes,"  Stacey  returned  mildly,  "but  the  results  are  so 
disproportionate.  The  young  business  idler  has  a  far 
more  luxurious  time  than  the  most  conscientious  laborer 
could  have." 

But  on  a  point  like  this  Mr.  Carroll  would  never  yield  an 
inch.  "Labor  is  getting  a  bigger  reward  for  less  work  than 
it  ever  got  before,"  he  said.  Then  he  changed  the  subject. 


260  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"You  know,  son,"  he  remarked,  with  a  sudden  smile,  "to 
see  you  sitting  there  brings  back  so  many  things.  I  can't 
get  over  the  feeling  that  you're  a  boy,  as  you  used  to  be,  and 
have  come  up  and  made  yourself  agreeable  in  preparation 
to  touching  me  for  money.  You  don't  need  money,  do 
you  ?"  he  asked  wistfully. 

"Goodness,  no !"  said  Stacey,  who  had  just  ten  dollars  to 
last  the  rest  of  the  month.  He  would  have  liked  to  oblige 
his  father,  but  he  really  couldn't,  in  this.  He  got  up  to 
go,  and  Mr.  Carroll  touched  the  button  that  would  summon 
his  stenographer. 

"I'll  run  along  now  and  leave  you  in  peace,"  Stacey  ob- 
served. "I'm  going  down  to  see  if  Parkins  will  give 
me  a  job." 

At  this  Mr.  Carroll  lifted  his  head  quickly  and  gave  him 
a  sharp  look.  "Just  a  minute,  Ruth,"  he  said  to  the  young 
woman  who  had  opened  the  door.  "I'll  ring  for  you  again 
presently."  She  went  out. 

Mr.  Carroll  gazed  at  his  son  with  interest.  "Going  back 
to  work,  eh  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Look  here !"  said  the  older  man  sharply.  "How  would 
you  like  a  job  with  me?  Lots  of  big  things  you  could 
work  into." 

Stacey  hesitated.  He  would  have  done  a  great  deal  to 
please  his  father.  But  after  a  moment  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied  reluctantly.  "I'd  like  it;  honestly  I 
would.  It  would  be  a  fascinating  new  game.  But  archi- 
tecture is  the  one  thing  I  know  about.  You  gave  me  years 
of  study  in  it.  I'd  better  stick  to  it." 

His  father  nodded.    "Right !"  he  said.    "I  can  see  that." 

A  few  minutes  later  Stacey  opened  the  door  of  Mr. 
Parkins's  private  office.  "Hello!"  he  remarked.  "Can  I 
come  in?" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  261 

"Well,  Stacey !"  cried  the  architect  cordially.  "How 
are  you  ?" 

"First-rate.    Got  a  job  for  me?" 

Mr.  Parkins  stared  at  him  with  a  humorous  smile.  "Now 
what  have  you  gone  and  done — reformed?" 

Stacey  laughed.    "Not  so  far  as  I  know,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Then  you  must  have  acquired  grace." 

Stacey  waved  the  suggestion  aside  deprecatingly.  "No," 
he  said,  "but  I'll  tell  you  the  truth.  "I've  worried  my  head 
too  long  about  the  problems  of  the  universe.  Everybody's 
doing  it.  A  mistake.  Work's  all  there  is  for  a  man — not  as 
a  drug,  but  just  because  it's  the  only  thing  he  knows  about 
and  can  take  hold  of."  And  Stacey  had  not  equivocated. 
As  far  as  it  went  this  did  seem  truth  to  him — just  a  frag- 
ment of  the  truth.  "How  about  that  job  ?"  he  added. 

"Sure !  Glad  to  have  you.  We  need  you  badly.  Hadn't 
found  any  one  to  replace  poor  Phil  Blair.  My  offer's  still 
open." 

"No,"  said  Stacey,  suddenly  grave  at  the  mention  of  Phil, 
"take  me  on  for  a  couple  of  months  at  the  old  salary.  Then 
if  I'm  any  good  you  can  repeat  your  offer  if  you  want  to. 
I  may  have  forgotten  everything  I  knew.  Tell  me,"  he 
added,  suddenly  feeling  all  this  as  of  very  little  importance, 
"how  did  Phil  do?  Tell  me  about  Phil." 

"The  most  lovable  chap  I've  ever  known,"  said  Mr. 
Parkins  soberly,  "and  he  worked  very  hard — too  hard.  I 
could  have  cried  when  I  heard  he  was  dead.  But  he  wasn't 
the  best  man  for  the  place.  You  would  have  been  better. 
Odd,  that  power  in  any  one  so  frail!  I  felt  as  though  I 
were  hiring  Bramante  to  design  bath-tubs." 
Stacey  nodded. 

The  architect  smiled  suddenly.    "I  didn't  mean  what  I 
said  to  sound  uncomplimentary  to  you,"  he  added. 

"Oh,"  said  Stacey  impatiently,  "I  never  thought  of  that 


262  The  Lonely  Warrior 

I'll  be  down  ready  to  work  at  nine  to-morrow  morning. 
Good-bye."  And  he  left  the  office  abruptly. 

When  he  was  again  on  the  street  he  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  set  off  on  foot  for  his  sister's  house,  two  miles 
distant.  But  the  mention  of  Phil's  name  had  thrown  him 
into  so  deep  a  preoccupation  that  he  walked  mechanically, 
hardly  aware  of  his  surroundings,  and  did  not  even  notice 
the  greetings  people  waved  at  him  from  passing  motor  cars. 
He  had  neglected  Phil  for  chimaeras,  he  mused  sadly. 
When  you  thought  about  life  as  a  whole  it  was  horrible — 
and  dead — a  cold  motionless  monster  that  froze  your  veins. 
Real  life,  good  or  bad,  wretched  or  happy,  but  warm,  was 
in  personal  relationships — and  nowhere  else.  He  had  let 
veil  after  gray  veil  of  bleak  abstractions  descend  between 
himself  and  Phil,  obscuring  this  warmest  and  freshest  of 
realities.  And  now  Phil  was  dead.  So  Stacey  meditated, 
but  without  bitterness;  for  there  was  a  kind  of  fatalism 
upon  him.  Whatever  was,  was.  Well,  there  was  still 
Catherine.  Perhaps  he  could  make  it  up  to  her  a  little. 

But  when  at  last  he  mounted  the  steps  of  his  sister's 
house  his  melancholy  fled ;  for  he  was  genuinely  eager  to  see 
Julie  and  was  glad  when  the  maid  told  him  she  was  at 
home — out  in  the  garden  behind  the  house,  he  learned,  and 
made  haste  to  join  her. 

"Well,  Stace!"  she  cried  joyfully  at  sight  of  him,  and 
threw  her  arms  around  him  in  a  warm  hug,  taking  care  to 
keep  her  gloved  hands,  which  were  muddy  with  weeding, 
from  touching  his  coat,  and  laughing  because  of  doing  so. 
"I  am  glad  to  see  you !  I  only  heard  this  morning.  If  I'd 
known  last  night  we'd  have  been  around  to  the  house.  Why 
didn't  you  call  me  up?  How  fit  you're  looking!"  And 
she  drew  away  to  gaze  at  him,  while  he  dropped  down  upon 
a  bench  and  looked  back,  smiling,  at  her. 

She  was  plump  and  sweet-natured,  Stacey  thought,  and 


The  Lonely  Warrior  263 

in  the  bright  May  sunlight  her  complexion  showed,  un- 
damaged, that  clear  healthy  freshness  which  can  be  retained 
only  by  decent  living.  He  was  glad  to  be  with  her. 

"Jimmy  and  Junior  both  well?"  he  asked. 

"Splendid!  Jimmy's  getting  rather  fat,  and  I — well,  you 
see !  So  we're  both  dieting.  We  sit  with  a  book  propped 
up  in  front  of  us  and  count  the  calories  in  everything." 
She  laughed  and  sat  down  beside  her  brother. 

"Too  much  happiness,"  said  Stacey.  "Not  enough  con- 
flict. You  and  Jimmy  ought  to  fight  more." 

He  was  wondering  about  his  sister.  Could  it  really  be 
that  she  encountered  no  problems  at  all'?  There  was  a 
sweetness  and  a  sureness  about  her  that  made  him  doubt 
such  an  obvious  hypothesis. 

"I'll  stay  to  lunch,  Jule,  if  you'll  ask  me,"  he  began,  "be- 
cause— " 

"Of  course  I  will !    How  nice !"  she  interrupted. 

" — Because  it  will  be  my  only  chance  for  a  while.  I'm 
going  back  to  work  with  Parkins  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Are  you?    Why?" 

She  looked  at  him  rather  shyly,  frowning  a  little.  "Be- 
cause," she  said  after  just  an  instant,  "you  have  so  fine  a 
training  it  seems  a  shame  to  waste  it  and  let  houses  be 
built  more  clumsily  by  people  who  haven't  had  it." 

Stacey  felt  grateful  for  her  reply.  She  might  have  said : 
"Because  I  think  you'll  be  happier,"  or:  "Because  I  think 
every  man  ought  to  do  something."  She  had  their  father's 
direct  way  of  going  straight  to  the  heart  of  a  question,  and 
she  was  so  simple  about  it  that  she  got  no  credit  for  intelli- 
gence. What  she  said  always  sounded  usual. 

She  went  on  with  her  weeding  now,  and  they  talked 
cordially  of  superficial  things. 

Junior,  back  from  kindergarten,  made  himself  the  centre 


264  The  Lonely  Warrior 

of  conversation  during  lunch,  but  afterward  Julie  sent  him 
away  with  his  nurse,  and  sat  down  with  Stacey  in  the 
living-room. 

It  was  curious,  he  thought,  what  a  sense  of  intimacy  he 
felt,  since,  except  for  that  one  remark  of  hers,  they  had 
talked  only  of  externals. 

"Julie,"  he  demanded  abruptly,  "does  everything  really 
run  along  for  you  as  smoothly  as  it  seems  to?  Are  you 
truly  perfectly  happy?" 

She  gave  him  a  startled  look,  her  eyes  suddenly  troubled. 
"No,"  she  said  painfully,  after  a  long  moment,  "I'm  not 
so — bovine  as  all  that.  Oh,"  she  added  quickly,  "I  get 
along!  I  haven't  any  soul  tragedies  and  I'm  not  in  love 
with  some  other  man  than  Jimmy,  but  there  are  things" — 
she  pressed  her  fingers  together  nervously — "different 
things — that  I'd  like  to  do — or  feel.  Reckless  things !" 

Looking  into  her  flushed  face,  Stacey  perceived  a  strange 
unknown  Julie,  and  he,  too,  was  troubled  and  remorseful. 
"I  didn't  know,"  he  said. 

"You  never  tried  to  find  out,  did  you,  Stacey  dear?"  she 
replied  gently. 

"No,"  he  assented. 

"But  why  should  you?"  she  asked,  defending  him  against 
her  own  attack.  "Every  one's  the  same  way.  They  all 
think :  'Oh,  Julie, — just  the  typical  housewife !' " 

"The  more  fools  they !"  Stacey  muttered. 

"No,  it's  natural.  I  behave  that  way.  I  have  to  behave 
some  way." 

"It's  a  lot  to  your  credit.  The  world  would  be  smoother 
if  every  one  did.  Don't  be  cross  with  me  for  stirring  you 
up,  Jule.  It  wasn't  nasty — or  meant  to  be.  I  was  only 
interested." 

She  gave  him  a  warm  smile.    "Of  course  I'm  not  cross. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  265 

I  think  it  was  nice  of  you,"  she  said,  quite  her  everyday 
self  again. 

But  perhaps  it  was  because  of  what  he  had  said  that  she 
ventured,  a  little  later,  to  bring  up  another  subject. 

"Stacey,"  she  began,  rather  hesitantly,  "I  think  what 
father  has  done  in  asking  Catherine  to  stay  at  the  house  is 
splendid,  and  I'm  truly  glad  about  it.  I  love  Catherine. 
But  I  thought  perhaps  you  ought  to  know  that  some  people 
are  gossiping  about  it." 

"Are  they?"  he  remarked.  "We  thought— father  and  I— 
that  they  probably  would." 

Julie  looked  relieved.  "Then  that's  all  right,"  she  ob- 
served. "It  was  only  on  Catherine's  account  that  I  was 
disturbed." 

"Catherine  would  mind  even  less  than  we." 

Julie  nodded.  "And  of  course,"  she  went  on,  "they  don't 
dare  say  anything  really  nasty — only  small  catty  things." 
She  paused  for  a  moment,  looking  at  her  brother.  "Do 
you  know  who  it  was  that  started  such  talk?"  she  added 
suddenly.  "Marian  Price." 

Stacey's  brows  contracted.  "Marian?"  he  repeated 
slowly.  "What  kind  of  things  did  Marian  say?" 

His  sister's  face  was  hard.  "Oh,  that  it  was  all  a  scheme 
of  Catherine's  to  catch  you!  And  that  you  were  so  sus- 
ceptible she'd  undoubtedly  succeed." 

Stacey  experienced  a  sudden  sick  disgust,  but  the  feel- 
ing vanished  presently.  "Poor  Marian!"  he  said. 

"Poor  Marian!"  Julie  cried.  "Why,  I'd  like  to  know? 
Hasn't  she  got  what  she  wanted?" 

"No.  Because  she  doesn't  know  what  she  wants,"  Sta- 
cey returned  slowly.  "She  wants  so  many  different  con- 
flicting things,  and  she  doesn't  know  what  any  of  them  are. 
Marian's  wretched." 


266  The  Lonely  Warrior 

But  Julie's  eyes  were  cold.  "Anyhow,  you've  been  away 
this  winter,  so  you  don't  know  all  that  I  do  about  Marian. 
I'm  afraid  she's  a  bad  lot." 

Stacey  winced.  "No,"  he  replied,  though  kindly  enough, 
"you're  not  afraid  of  that,  Julie.  You'd  rather  have  it 
so." 

His  sister  rose  quickly  and  came  over  to  sit  beside  him 
on  the  davenport.  "Yes,"  she  admitted  contritely,  "that 
was  nasty  of  me.  But  I  can't  like  Marian.  I  never  could." 
She  gazed  at  her  brother  timidly.  "Stace,"  she  said,  her 
face  flushing,  "are  you — are  you  still1  in  love  with  Marian  ?" 
She  appeared  rather  frightened  at  her  own  daring. 

"No,"  he  replied  simply,  looking  straight  into  his  sister's 
eyes.  "No.  Not  any  more.  Not  the  least  bit." 

Julie  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Then  you  may  be  as  sorry 
for  her  as  you  like,"  she  said  happily. 

The  rest  of  their  talk  was  matter-of-fact  and  trivial 
enough.  But  when  Stacey  got  up  to  go  Julie  accompanied 
him  to  the  door.  She  seemed  all  at  once  a  little  uneasy. 

"Stacey,"  she  remarked,  not  looking  at  him  and  playing 
with  a  button  of  his  coat,  "please  don't  think  from — any- 
thing I  said — that  I'm  not — decently  happy.  I  am;  of 
course  I  am.  It  sounds  ungrateful.  No  one  could  be 
sweeter  than  Jimmy;  and  then  there's  Junior.  I — " 

Her  brother  laughed.  "Don't  be  a  silly,  Jule!"  he  in- 
terrupted. "I  understood  perfectly  well  what  you  meant. 
That,  in  spite  of  everything,  you  did  have  some  thwarted 
desires.  So  has  Jimmy,  no  doubt.  So  has  every  one.  It's 
just  as  well,  I  dare  say.  There's  been  less  thwarting  than 
normally  going  on  these  last  few  years — the  lid's  been  lifted 
a  little — and  look  at  the  hellish  mess !  Good-bye.  Thanks 
a  lot.  I  had  a  lovely  time." 

As  he  walked  away  he  meditated  about  Marian.  How 
she  hated  him!  Oh,  not  because  he  had  broken  their  en- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  267 

gagement.  In  the  end  she  had  seen  eye-to-eye  with  him 
about  that,  acquiescing  cynically  in  his  second  estimate  of 
her  (which,  he  knew  now,  had  been  as  false  as  his  first). 
She  was  angry  because  he  had  not  come  to  her  house  that 
winter  night.  He  pictured  vividly  how  she  must  have 
looked,  what  she  must  have  felt,  while  she  sat  there  wait- 
ing and  waiting,  till  at  last,  white  and  still  with  fury,  she 
went  up  to  bed.  She  had  offered  him  all  that  she  thought 
she  had  to  give,  and  he  had  accepted,  then  changed  his 
mind.  Consciously  superior  in  morals,  she  must  have 
thought  him.  He  hadn't  been,  heaven  knew!  No  won- 
der she  hated  him !  He  had  no  passion  left  for  Marian— 
at  least,  there  was  none  in  the  thought  of  her;  there  was 
no  telling  what  her  physical  presence  might  stir  up  in  him 
• — but  he  felt  a  bruised  tenderness  for  her  and  sorrow  that 
she  should  be  so  wretched.  He  had  loved  her.  Her  al'one ! 

After  a  while  he  came  to  the  park.  And  there,  sitting 
on  the  same  bench  from  which  she  had  called  to  him  that 
afternoon  when  Stacey  had  broken  his  engagement  to  Ma- 
rian, he  found  Mrs.  Latimer.  But  now  he  saw  her  first 
and  stood  quite  near  to  her  for  a  full  half-minute  before 
she  caught  sight  of  him.  Now,  as  then,  she  was  poking 
holes  in  the  gravel  with  the  point  of  a  parasol,  but  she  did 
not  seem  the  same,  he  thought;  her  pose  was  tired,  and 
the  droop  of  her  shoulders.  When  she  became  aware  of 
some  one's  close  presence  and  looked  up  he  was  shocked; 
she  appeared  so  old  and  worn.  Then  her  face  flashed  into 
glad  recognition,  and  the  impression  lost  its  acuteness. 

"Why,  Stacey,"  she  exclaimed,  "did  you  drop  from  the 
sky  ?"  She  moved  over  to  make  room  for  him  on  the  bench, 
and  he  sat  down. 

"It's  just  about  a  year  ago — not  quite,"  he  returned,  "that 
I  found  you  here  in  the  same  place.  Only  then  you  had  to 
call  me.  This  time  it's  I  who  surprise  you.  I'm  awfully 


268  The  Lonely  Warrior 

glad  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Latimer.  I  was  coming  to  your  house 
presently." 

"And  you  got  back  ?" 

"Yesterday." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  affectionate  curiosity.  And  now 
her  familiar  smile  and  bearing,  all  her  known  quality,  was 
as  a  lack  of  focus  in  a  lens,  blurring  the  objective;  yet,  even 
so,  he  still'  felt  that  she  was  somehow  changed — older,  less 
resilient. 

"You  look  very  strong  and  composed  and  sure  of  your- 
self," she  said  at  last. 

"Do  I?    Well,  that's  good!"  he  returned  lightly. 

She  let  it  go  at  that,  tactfully,  and  they  talked  of  outside 
things, — of  his  life  in  Pickens,  of  Vernon,  of  how  lovely 
the  month  was.  About  herself  Mrs.  Latimer  said  nothing 
at  all,  and  this  worried  Stacey  until  it  occurred  to  him  that 
she  had  never  talked  of  herself,  save  only,  suddenly,  on 
that  one  afternoon  a  year  ago  here  in  the  park. 

"You  must  come  home  with  me  now,"  she  observed  after 
a  while,  "and  I  will  give  you  tea."  And  she  got  up,  rather 
wearily. 

Her  drawing-room  was  just  as  he  remembered  it.  The 
light  gleamed  in  just  the  same  way  from  the  ivory  wood- 
work and  along  the  polished  surfaces  of  the  same  exquisite 
vases.  But  the  room  seemed  to  Stacey  like  a  deadened 
melody  played  on  muted  strings.  It  was  a  romantic  room 
and  it  needed  Marian — the  old  elfish  Marian,  slipping  in 
and  out  lightly, — to  vivify  it.  He  looked  around  him 
dreamily. 

Mrs.  Latimer  had  sunk  down  on  a  divan  and  removed 
her  hat  slowly.  Now  she  was  leaning  back  and  looking  at 
Stacey,  not  so  much  curiously  as  wistfully. 

"It's  very  good  to  have  you  here,  Stacey,"  she  said  at 
last  simply. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  269 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied,  warmed  by  her  affection  and 
feeling  soothed  by  the  delicate  hushed  beauty  of  the  room, 
which  had  no  connection  with  the  outside  world.  The 
maid  brought  in  the  tea  things. 

But  the  water  had  been  boiling  in  the  silver  urn  for 
some  little  time  before  Mrs.  Latimer  finally  made  the  tea. 
It  seemed  to  demand  a  conscious  effort  for  her  to  lift  her 
hand  to  the  urn. 

"You're  tired,"  said  Stacey  suddenly.  "Aren't  you  feel- 
ing well?" 

She  started,  so  that  some  of  the  water  spilled  over  upon 
the  tray;  for  just  a  moment  she  gave  him  an  odd  pained 
look;  then  she  turned  about  quickly  and  laid  her  head 
against  the  back  of  the  divan.  Her  shoulders  shook  with 
sobs,  and  there  was  fatigue  without  relaxation  in  every 
line  of  her  taut  body. 

Stacey  was  shocked.  He  had  always  thought  of  Mrs. 
Latimer  as  strong,  cool,  and  too  wise  to  be  shaken  by  any 
tempest.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  to  do  or  say.  Instinct- 
ively he  desired  to  stand  near  her  and  comfort  her,  but  he 
feared  that  this  would  only  make  things  worse.  So  he 
sat  silent  and  gazed  at  her  pityingly. 

After  a  while  she  looked  up.  "Forgive  me !"  she  began ; 
then  at  sight  of  his  expression  her  mouth  trembled  and 
she  cried  again.  But  presently  she  regained  control  of  her- 
self and  wiped  her  eyes.  Then  Stacey  saw  that  she  was 
an  old  woman  with  a  weary  tragic  face. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Stacey,"  she  murmured  unsteadily. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Nothing!    I  just — can't  go  on  with  it." 

"Tell  me." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "It  was  only  because  you 
were  kind,  Stacey,  and  seemed  to  feel  interest  in  me." 

She  did  not  mean  this  as  a  reproof,  he  knew,  but  he  was 


270  The  Lonely  Warrior 

aware  that  it  was  a  damning  one.  Her  interest  in  him  had 
always  been  immense  and  generous;  what  interest  had  he 
ever  shown  in  her?  He  had  taken  her  for  granted. 

"Tell  me,"  he  repeated. 

"But — there  are  so  many  things  one  doesn't  say — one 
isn't  allowed.  If  I  told  the  truth  I  should  seem  shame- 
ful, violating  decency."  Her  eyes  were  chilly  now  and 
questioning. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  then,"  she  said  suddenly,  in  a  hard  voice,  "it's 
my  husband — or  partly.  Perhaps  he  finds  me  as  faulty  as 
I  find  him,  but,  oh,  he's  finely  greedy,  finely  futile,  finely 
avaricious,  finely  sterile  in  every  human  sentiment!  I 
could  bear  all  those  things — perhaps — but  for  his  fineness 
in  all  of  them.  I  can't  live  with  him  any  longer.  I  loathe 
him.  What  have  I  done  with  my  life,  Stacey?  I  look 
down  on  nothing  but  ruins.  My  only  child  does  not  I'ove 
me,  nor  I  her.  What  good  to  bear  a  child?  What  is  such 
a  life  for?  I've  been  tolerant  too  long.  What's  it  all  about 
—life?" 

"Don't!"  -he  said  quickly.  "You  can't  do  it  that  way! 
I— I  know." 

His  tone  calmed  her  and  she  looked  at  him  in  a  pathetic 
questioning  manner,  as  though  she,  who  had  always  been 
like  a  watchful  mother  to  him,  were  now  his  child.  He 
sincerely  did  not  like  to  talk  about  himself ;  he  would  al- 
ways have  an  almost  fierce  aloofness.  But  he  would  give 
Mrs.  Latimer  what  he  could — if  there  was  anything  to 
give. 

"See !"  he  said.  "Life  is — life  is  a  Medusa.  Try  to  face 
it  and  it  freezes  you  to  stone.  You  must  look  at  the — the 
mirrored  reflection  in  yourself,  in  the  shield  of  your  own 
personality.  Then  you  can  see  it,  without  horror,  for  the 
pitiful,  snake-crowned,  impotently  ugly  thing  it  is."  He 


The  Lonely  Warrior  271 

paused,  with  an  odd  smile.  "You  even,"  he  added  slowly, 
"can  see  a  ravaged  beauty  in  it." 

Mrs.  Latimer  stared  at  him  in  silence,  but  the  tensity  in 
her  face  had  vanished,  perhaps  because  she  was  surprised. 

"And  the  sword — Perseus'  sword?"  she  asked  finally. 

"No,"  he  said,  "that's  as  far  as  the  analogy  goes.  There 
is  no  sword." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  gentle  eager  look,  and  he  saw 
that  he  really  had  helped  her — not  probably  through  any- 
thing he  had  said,  but  by  awakening  her  capacity  for  sym- 
pathetic interest  in  others,  her  deep  altruism.  It  was  of 
him  she  was  thinking  now — proudly,  as  though  he  were 
herself.  And,  much  as  he  disliked  to,  he  would  have  gone 
on  and  told  her  everything  he  knew  about  himself  if  she 
had  asked  it.  But  she  seemed  to  .divine  the  effort  he  had 
made,  and  asked  him  nothing  further. 

"Oh !"  she  cried  after  a  moment,  with  a  tremulous  laugh. 
"Your  tea,  Stacey!" 

"I  like  it  cold,  thanks,"  he  said,  also  laughing. 

And  after  this  they  managed  to  talk  almost  easily  of 
common  things. 

But,  having  risen  to  draw  a  curtain  at  a  window,  Mrs. 
Latimer  suddenly  turned  about.  "Stacey,  you  must  go 
now !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  have  just  seen  my  husband  com- 
ing up  the  street.  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  you  here  in  the 
room  with  both  of  us  after  what  I  said.  I  exaggerated. 
It  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that.  I  shall  be  all  right." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  say  good-bye,  but  she  leaned 
forward  and  kissed  his  cheek.  "Thank  you,"  she  said. 

As  he  left  the  house  Stacey  met  Mr.  Latimer.  He  looked 
like  a  steel  engraving  of  a  gentleman. 

"Ah,  you're  just  going?"  he  remarked,  with  his  cool  pol- 
ished smile. 

"Sorry!"  said  Stacey.    "I  must." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

STACEY  threw  himself  into  work  with  a  cold  vigor  that  had 
in  it  nothing  of  fad  or  impulse.  He  did  not  find,  as  he 
had  feared  he  might,  that  he  had  forgotten  much.  Every- 
thing came  back  to  him  at  once;  it  had  all  been  there, 
tucked  away,  neglected,  within  him.  Neither  did  he  chafe 
at  the  long  regular  hours  he  kept,  nor  feel  them  burden- 
some. In  the  old  days  he  had  perhaps  been  a  little  lazy; 
it  had  been  hard  for  him  on  arriving  at  the  office  not  to 
waste  time — over  a  newspaper  or  a  book-catalogue  or  any- 
thing that  presented  itself — before  actually  beginning  his 
work;  he  had  crept  into  work  as  a  swimmer  into  cold  wa- 
ter. Now  there  was  no  indolence  about  him;  the  instant 
he  sat  down  at  his  desk  he  turned  his  mind  on  the  prob- 
lems before  him;  and,  swiftly,  intelligently,  with  intense 
concentration,  he  was  soon  accomplishing  twice  as  much 
as  any  other  man  in  the  office.  Indeed,  less  from  a  desire 
to  be  always  busy  than  from  a  kind  of  impatient  thorough- 
ness, dislike  of  slovenliness,  he  often  spent  hours  on  draw- 
ings that  he  might  have  turned  over  to  draftsmen.  But, 
though  he  was  extremely  interested  in  his  work,  there  was 
no  such  zest  in  it  for  him  as  he  had  once  felt.  Formerly 
he  had  romanticized  it,  had  seen  it  all  as  something  glow- 
ing and  fine.  Now  it  was  only  rarely  that  he  experienced 
a  little  lifting  sense  of  loveliness.  This  was  when  loveli- 
ness was  really  there  to  perceive. 

Mr.  Parkins,  who  was  something  of  a  dreamer  and  him- 
self inclined  to  waste  time,  was  amazed.  He  had  difficulty 
in  supplying  Stacey  with  enough  to  do. 

"Look  here!"  he  said,  before  Stacey  had  been  back  a 

272 


The  Lonely  Warrior  273 

month.  "What  the  devil's  come  over  you?  You're  in- 
satiable! You  turn  the  work  out  as  though  it  were  arith- 
metic." And  he  smiled  in  his  uncertain  reflective  way. 

"So  it  is,  nine-tenths  of  it, — as  unemotional  as  arith- 
metic. Nothing  but  concentration  needed  most  of  the  time. 
Restful.  A  mistake  to  use  your  soul  when  you  don't  have 
to." 

The  architect  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  Stacey's  desk. 
"But,"  he  suggested  tentatively,  "you  don't  feel  your  old 
delight  in  it?  Or  do  you?" 

"When  there's  any  occasion,"  said  Stacey.  "There,  for 
instance."  And  he  pulled  from  a  mass  of  papers  a  draw- 
ing of  a  detail — a  wrought-iron  balcony  for  a  window. 
His  eyes  showed  pleasure. 

"Yes.  By  Jove,  yes !  That  is  good  Stacey !  Fine  and 
— sure  at  the  same  time.  You're  better  than  you  used  to 
be.  For  Henderson's  house?  Pity  it's  so  sort  of  wasted. 
I  mean,  that  it  won't  be  appreciated." 

"Oh,  I  don't  feel  that,"  Stacey  replied.  "I  feel  that  it's 
worth  while  enough  to  do  anything  good,  even  a  molding 
for  a  room, — I  don't  know  why." 

Mr.  Parkins  looked  surprised.  "Well,  that's  the  right 
way  to  feel,  of  course.  There's  one  thing  certain,"  he 
added,  getting  up.  "You  go  into  the  firm  the  first  of  the 
month.  And  there's  no  favoritism  about  that,  either." 

"All  right,"  said  Stacey.  "Thanks.  It's  awfully  good 
of  you."  And  he  went  to  work  again. 

What  Mr.  Parkins  had  said  was  true.  Stacey  was  a 
better  architect  than  formerly.  He  was  still  affectionately 
interested  in  detail,  because  that  interest  had  always  been 
a  part  of  him,  and  he  knew  enough  now  to  understand 
calmly  that  nothing  in  one  ever  vanished ;  but  he  saw  things 
in  a  larger,  more  solid  way  than  once. 

Hammond,  a  younger  man  who  was  put  under  Stacey's 


274  The  Lonely  Warrior 

guidance,  questioned  him  about  Stacey's  preliminary  sketch 
for  a  competition.  It  was  of  a  great  stone  bridge  that  was 
to  cross  both  branches  of  the  river  in  the  heart  of  the  rail- 
way and  warehouse  section. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  maybe  a  little — oh,  well,  grim,  Car- 
roll?" asked  Hammond,  puzzled. 

"Good  Lord!  man,"  said  Stacey,  "think  where  it  is — 
mud,  noise,  confusion!" 

"Well,  that's  just  it.  Oughtn't  one  to  brighten  the  place 
up  a  little?" 

Stacey  shook  his  head.  "I'm  no  damned  beauty-doctor. 
Just  the  facts — the  right  ones — in  the  best  way." 

Stacey  played  tennis  hard  for  an  hour  every  afternoon 
when  he  had  finished  work;  for  his  strong  body  craved 
exercise.  But  his  mind  did  not  crave  companionship.  He 
mingled  with  only  a  few  people,  and  most  of  these  doubt- 
less resented  his  manner  as  seeming  hard  and  cold.  In 
this  they  were  wrong.  Stacey  was  merely  aloof.  He  was 
not  superior,  judging  these  people  adversely;  he  was  sim- 
ply not  letting  them  in — or  himself  into  them.  He  had  a 
feeling  that  this  world  of  personal  relationships  was  too 
rich.  It  was  more  like  a  sea.  One  might  be  swept  away 
futilely  on  it.  Toward  those  whom  he  did  admit  as  com- 
panions— and  they  were  sometimes  the  unlikeliest  people 
— he  was  prodigal  of  interest,  in  his  own  different  way  as 
altruistic  as  Mrs.  Latimer. 

For  his  hasty  luncheon  Stacey  frequented  a  small  cheap 
restaurant  near-by.  So,  also,  did  Jack  Edwards,  who  had 
been  commander  of  the  local  American  Legion  post  at 
the  time  Stacey  had  set  it  in  a  turmoil,  but  was  so  no  longer, 
having  been  succeeded  by  some  one  less  incongruously 
radical.  The  two  fell  into  the  habit  of  sitting  down  at 
table  together  for  their  fifteen-minute  meal,  and  Stacey 
found  himself  at  once  attracted  by  the  other  man.  Some- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  275 

thing  in  his  firm  lined  face — perhaps  the  odd  expression 
of  the  brown  eyes — hinted  at  a  tortured  courageous  per- 
sonality. Stacey  was  friendly  from  the  first.  Edwards,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  in  the  beginning  obviously  suspicious. 
But  he  thawed  gradually,  and  the  two  became  friends, 
united  by  some  deep,  almost  unrecognized  resemblance  be- 
tween them.  Yet  for  a  long  time  their  talk  was  hardly 
more  than  casual  comment  on  events. 

"What  do  you  do  after  lunch  ?"  asked  Stacey  one  June 
day,  as  they  pushed  back  their  chairs  and  rose.  "You 
must  surely  take  more  time  off  than  this  before  going  back 
to  work." 

"Oh,"  the  other  replied,  "I  generally  stroll  around  for 
twenty  minutes — down  to  the  river  sometimes." 

"Come  up  to  my  office  and  smoke  a  cigarette,  won't  you  ? 
There'll  be  no  one  there  for  half  an  hour  yet." 

"Don't  care  if  I  do."  And  the  two  men  paid  their  checks 
and  went  out  together,  Stacey  walking  slowly,  since  Ed- 
wards limped  badly  on  account  of  his  wounded  leg. 

In  Stacey 's  room  they  sat  down,  with  the  littered  desk 
between  them,  and  smoked  silently  for  some  minutes.  Sta- 
cey had  his  feet  up  against  the  side  of  an  open  drawer,  but 
suddenly  he  swung  them  down  and  turned  to  face  his 
friend. 

"Edwards,"  he  demanded  abruptly,  "what  do  you  think 
of  the  war,  anyway?" 

The  muscles  of  the  other  man's  rather  stern  face  con- 
tracted slightly.  "Think  of  it?"  he  returned.  "I  don't 
think  of  it.  I  don't  want  to.  Once  in  a  while  I  dream." 

Stacey  considered  him  with  grim  comprehension.  From 
almost  any  one  else  the  remark  would  have  sounded  melo- 
dramatic. Edwards  made  it  quite  sincerely,  with  no 
thought  of  effect.  When  the  raw  black-and-white  stuff  of 
melodrama  became  truth — that  was  horrible.  Stacey  shiv- 


276  The  Lonely  Warrior 

ered.  But  after  a  little  he  returned  to  it.  "Yes,  but  I 
mean :  do  you  feel  now  that  it  was  all  bad,  all  rotten  selfish 
commercialism  from  the  very  beginning?  Oh,  you've  every 
right  to!  I  don't  blame  you  and  your  people  if  you  do. 
But  do  you?" 

"We've  been  tricked,"  Edwards  replied  bitterly,  "duped! 
And  I'll  take  that  point  of  view — the  one  you  ask  me  if  I 
have — publicly  as  long  as  I  live.  It's  the  only  way  for  me 
and  mine  to  fight  you  and  yours.  Just  as  the  way  for  your 
side  to  fight  is  to  assert  that  the  war  was  noble.  But — it's 
not  so  simple.  No,  I  don't  think  that." 

"No  more  do  I!"  cried  Stacey.  "I  hate  the  war!  It 
brought  out  everything  rotten  that  lay  hidden  in  men.  But 
— some  hundreds  of  thousands  of  young  men  did  go  into  it 
nobly,  and  to  just  that  extent  it  was  a  decent  war.  They're 
mostly  dead  now — worse  luck  to  the  world! — and  a  good 
many  of  those  that  aren't  are  turned  beastly  by  what  they 
lived  through.  But  .  .  ."  He  paused.  A  kind  of  dark 
light  smoldered  in  his  eyes. 

"There  was  courage,"  said  Edwards  in  a  deep  voice. 
"My  God!  there  was  courage!  Not  your  romantic  high- 
adventure  sort,  but  the  sort  that  could  live  through  mud 
and  intensive  shelling  and  still  push  men  on,  afterward,  to 
advance.  But,  oh,  Christ !  the  wasted  lives  in  the  Argonne ! 
— thrown  away  through  sheer  incompetence!  Your  people 
did  that!" 

"And  even  so,"  said  Stacey  somberly,  "you  didn't  see 
the  Somme."  Suddenly  the  dull  glow  in  his  eyes  rose  to  a 
flame.  He  struck  the  desk  with  his  clenched  fist.  "The 
thing  that  gets  me,  Edwards,"  he  burst  out,  "is  these 
beastly  cheap  editors  of  weeklies  sitting  up  and  writing 
pertly  about  the  war  as  if  it  had  been  all  a  game  of  grab, 
nothing  decent!  Damn  them!  Petty  complacent  asses! 
What  do  they  know  about  it?  What  do  they  know  about 


The  Lonely  Warrior  277 

physical  courage — or  any  other  kind?  Have  they  suffered? 
Have  they  fought  for  ideals  and  been  given  dung?  The  In- 
tellectuals, they  call  themselves!  An  honest  protester  like 
Debs,  all  right,  I'll  respect  him.  But  these  vulgar  under- 
bred egotists — faugh!  The  only  ones  I  hate  as  much  are 
the  others  who  sit  up  and  write  about  how  everything  was 
first-rate — bully  war — noble — good  clearly  coming  out  of 
it!"  He  ceased,  panting  with  rage. 

"Don't  hate  so,  Carroll,"  said  Edwards  slowly.  "Where's 
the  good?" 

Stacey  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  "You're 
right,"  he  returned.  "It's  idiotic!  I  thought  I'd  learned 
better.  And,"  he  added,  laughing  shortly,  "fancy  wasting 
emotion  on  that  tribe !" 

He  felt  dizzy  and  faintly  nauseated,  as  though  poisoned, 
and  he  was  rather  ashamed.  It  was  a  flash  out  of  an 
earlier  side  of  him. 

For  Stacey  was  like  a  fabric  that  was  being  woven  to- 
gether steadily  out  of  varied  strands.  But  here  and  there 
the  woof  was  faulty;  the  pattern  was  broken;  threads 
stuck  out  loosely. 

But  moments  of  hate  such  as  this  were  rare.  Generally 
he  was  cool  enough — cooler  and  perhaps  more  tolerant  than 
Edwards,  who  always  in  general  talk  showed  himself  bit- 
terly conscious  of  the  "class  struggle."  Edwards  came  up 
to  the  office  for  a  few  minutes  after  luncheon  nearly  every 
day  now,  and  as  long  as  the  two  men  talked  personally  or 
of  concrete  subjects  he  forgot  his  obsession — or,  rather, 
seemed  almost  irately  unable  to  apply  it  in  any  way  to 
Stacey;  but  at  the  least  broadening  of  the  conversation  it 
emerged,  a  sullen  thing. 

"Come  out  to  dinner  with  us  some  evening,  will  you? 
To-night,  if  you  like,"  Stacey  suggested  once. 

"No,"  said  Edwards  shortly. 


278  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey  laughed.  "Why  not?  Bound  to  have  no  deal- 
ings with  the  devil  or  any  of  his  allies?  Better  come. 
You'd  like  my  father.  You'd  fight  with  him,  but  you'd  like 
him." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  Edwards.  "I  don't  want  to  like 
any  of  your  crew.  It's  their  likableness  that  I  resent.  Of 
course  they're  likable.  Why  shouldn't  they  be?  They've 
leisure  and  all  the  appurtenances  essential  to  becoming  so. 
We've  got  to  fight  them — you,  as  class  against  class." 

"I  see.  Sentiment  must  be  kept  out.  No  fraternizing  in 
the  trenches." 

Edwards  flushed.  "You're  too  rotten  clever,  Carroll,"  he 
replied  resentfully.  "It's  easy  for  you  to  make  me  appear  in 
the  wrong." 

"No,"  said  Stacey,  "I  simply  fancy  you're  wrong  to  think 
in  classes.  They're  abstractions.  If  everybody  would  drop 
them  men  could  meet  as  men." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Edwards,  clearly  out  of  patience,  "it's 
all  very  well  for  you  to  sit  there  and  talk !  You  can  afford 
to  be  sweetly  reasonable.  You're  fixed — safe.  You've 
everything.  Of  course  you  can  talk  unselfishly;  you  can 
even  talk  like  a  revolutionary.  You  know  damn  well  there 
isn't  going  to  be  any  revolution — not  yet." 

"Well,  as  for  that,"  said  Stacey  mildly,  "I'll  admit  that  I 
live  in  a  luxurious  house  with  all  sorts  of  comforts — pleas- 
ant enough  in  their  way.  Only  how  much  do  they  amount 
to?  I'm  not  essentially  soft.  I  go  on  inhabiting  the  place 
because  it's  there,  because  I  haven't  any  particular  social 
theories  (I  don't,  for  instance,  see  what  good  my  not  living 
there  would  do  any  one),  because  of  my  father,  and  because 
of  Catherine  Blair,  my  friend  Phil's  widow,  and  her  boys." 

Edwards'  face  was  crimson.  "I  didn't  mean  what  I  said, 
Carroll,"  he  blurted  out.  "I  know  well  enough  that — oh, 
well,  I  apologize." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  279 

"Shucks !"  said  Stacey,  "that's  all  right.  It's  a  good  thing 
to  look  into  one's  own  existence  now  and  then.  For  the  rest, 
I  dare  say  that  I'm  paid  more  than  I'm  worth  for  my  work 
here.  I  can't  tell,  and  I  don't  intend  to  waste  much  time 
worrying  about  it.  I  probably  earn  more  than  a  skilled 
mechanic  like  you,  and  that's  wrong.  I  earn  less  than  a 
broker,  and  that's  wrong.  I  can,  because  of  my  aptitude  and 
a  long  training,  build  decent  houses.  How's  any  one  to  know 
what  my  exact  remuneration  should  be  ?" 

"Under  this  system  the  Lord  God  Himself  couldn't 
decide." 

"That's  what  I  mean — under  this  system." 

Stacey  was  engrossed  with  the  plans  for  the  bridge  one 
afternoon  when  the  office-boy  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Lady  to  see  you,  Mr.  Carroll,"  he  announced. 

"All  right,"  said  Stacey  mechanically,  not  taking  it  in. 

So  when  a  moment  later  he  looked  up  to  see  Irene  Loeffler 
standing  opposite  him  he  fairly  gaped  with  surprise.  But 
he  rose  quickly  and  went  around  the  desk  to  her. 

"How  are  you?"  he  said.  "I  didn't  hear  you  come  in. 
Sit  down,  do !  It's  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  you." 

She  shook  hands,  dropped  his  hand  quickly,  then  flung 
herself  into  a  chair.  She  was  the  same  abrupt  disconcerting 
person  as  ever.  Just  now  she  was  a  trifle  flushed  with 
embarrassment. 

Stacey  sat  down  near  her — but  not  too  near — and  con- 
sidered her  with  a  polite  external  gravity.  Inwardly  he  was 
amused  by  the  recollection  of  her  advances,  somewhat  re- 
morseful at  having  treated  her  so  roughly,  and  just  a  little 
apprehensive. 

"Wanted  to  see  you,  Mr.  Carroll,"  Irene  began  gruffly, 
"and  this  seemed  a  good  place.  Sorry  to  disturb  you, 
though." 

But  there  was  a  faint  tremor  in  her  voice.    Her  affectation 


280  The  Lonely  Warrior 

of  mannishness  made  her  appear  only  the  more  feminine, 
Stacey  thought.  In  an  odd  way  she  was  attractive. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  replied, 
and  waited. 

Irene  swallowed  once  or  twice.  "Well,"  she  said,  trying 
again  for  a  beginning,  "I  wanted  to  tell  you  something.  I 
suppose  you've  got  a  rotten  opinion  of  me.  Haven't  you?'* 
she  demanded,  staring  at  him,  a  sulky  childish  look  about 
her  mouth. 

Stacey  cordially  disclaimed  having  anything  of  the  sort. 

"Well,  you'd  have  a  right  to,  I  guess.  Anyway,  what  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  was  that  I've  come  to  my  senses.  You 
haven't  anything  to  fear  from  me  any  more." 

Stacey  choked  at  this  and  kept  his  face  straight  with 
difficulty. 

"And  I'm  engaged  to  be  married  to  Paul  Hemingway. 
Know  him  ?" 

"Fine !"  said  Stacey,  laughing  in  spite  of  his  best  efforts. 
"Awfully  good  fellow!  I  think  you've  chosen  well.  I'll 
send  you  a  wedding  present."  And  he  held  out  his  hand. 

But  she  did  not  take  it.  Instead  she  twisted  her  handker- 
chief nervously  around  her  fingers.  Stacey  had  never  seen 
any  one  with  so  little  repose. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  demanded  abruptly,  "that  it's  all  right 
for  me  to  marry  him  ?" 

He  stared  at  her.  "Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  he  asked, 
completely  lost. 

"Well,  I  mean,"  she  said  sullenly,  her  lower  lip  quivering 
like  that  of  a  child  about  to  cry,  "I  mean — after  what  I  said 
to  you." 

Stacey  understood  now  and  was  touched.  "Why,  you 
silly  child!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  never  heard  of  anything  so 
absurd!  If  that's  the  worst  thing  you  ever  did  you've  the 
purest  past  in  the  world !" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  281 

She  brightened,  tears  of  relief  standing  in  her  eyes.  "But 
anyway  I  must  tell  Paul  about  it,  mustn't  I  ?" 

"No!"  Stacey  almost  shouted,  overcome  with  a  mixture 
of  amazement  and  admiration.  "There's  nothing  to  tell!" 

Irene  wiped  her  eyes,  in  obvious  resentment  at  the  need. 
"All  right,  then,"  she  said.  "Thanks."  And  now  she  shook 
hands.  Then  she  looked  at  Stacey  with  a  tremulous  smile. 
"You've  got  a  lot  of  charm,"  she  announced. 

But  at  this  he  retreated  hastily  behind  his  desk,  and  she 
departed,  laughing. 

Stacey  thought  often  of  Marian,  but  he  did  not  see  her 
until  July.  He  had  left  the  office  late  one  afternoon  and  was 
walking  briskly  along  the  boulevard  on  the  way  to  the  tennis 
courts  when  she  called  to  him  from  her  open  car.  It  drew 
up  at  the  curb  beside  him,  and  Marian  reached  out  her  hand 
to  him  gracefully.  She  was  coming  from  a  tea,  she  said, 
and  she  was  wearing  a  lacy  dress  of  blue  and  silver  and  a 
drooping  picture-hat,  white  and  transparent,  that  cast  soft 
shadow  over  her  face  without  really  obscuring  it.  Against 
the  deep  cushions  of  the  tonneau  she  looked  small,  elegant 
and  sophisticated.  It  occurred  to  Stacey  that  it  was  non- 
sense for  him  to  be  concerned  about  her.  Their  meeting 
must  have  appeared  to  an  outsider  like  one  of  those  Salon 
pictures  of  an  encounter  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

"You're  looking  very  well,  Stacey,"  she  said  gaily,  "but 
you  don't  deserve  to  have  me  say  so.  Here  you've  been  back 
for  two  months  without  coming  near  me!  It's  not 
respectful." 

Stacey  laughed.  "What  a  funny  word!  Well,  I  will 
come.  Love  to." 

Marian's  arm  hung  limply  along  the  edge  of  the  car.  She 
drummed  idly  with  her  hand  against  the  polished  enamel. 
And  the  gesture  seemed  to  sum  her  up — perfection,  graceful 
ennui,  and  all. 


282  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you'll  just  say  you'll  come,  and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  it  unless  I  pin  you  down.  So  I  will.  Come — 
let's  see ! — come  on  Monday  at  five  and  have  tea  with  me." 

"All  right.  Thanks.  I'll  be  coming  straight  from  the 
office,  so  I'll  look  dingy  probably.  Hope  you  won't  mind." 

"Gracious,  no!"  she  replied,  apparently  without  malice, 
and  laughing  rather  delightfully.  "It's  not  your  clothes  I 
care  about  seeing.  I've  got  clothes.  Till  Monday,  then." 
She  touched  the  chauffeur's  back  lightly  with  the  tip  of  her 
slender  blue-and-white  parasol,  and  the  car  moved  away 
smoothly. 

He  gazed  after  her  for  a  moment,  and  again  he  dubbed 
himself  a  fussy  fool.  He  forgot  that  one's  thought  of  a 
person  is  direct,  without  veils ;  so  that  in  an  actual  encounter 
after  long  separation  one  is  aware  chiefly  of  the  veils. 

But  it  was  only  his  father  and  Catherine  whom  Stacey 
saw  constantly.  He  spent  nearly  all  his  evenings  at  home. 
Sometimes  he  would  read  or  would  merely  look  on  while 
Catherine  and  Mr.  Carroll  played  cards.  And  he  was 
amused  at  this;  for  he  did  not  think  that  Catherine  liked 
cards  really.  When  he  thought  she  had  endured  enough  he 
would  insist  on  playing  in  her  stead,  declaring  that  she  was 
usurping  his  place  in  the  home.  Or,  again,  they  would  all 
three  merely  sit  and  talk.  But  this  made  Mr.  Carroll  restless. 
He  demanded,  Stacey  could  see,  some  direct  problem,  even 
if  a  small  one,  to  occupy  his  mind.  He  could  talk  while  he 
played  cards,  but  talk  was  for  him  no  end  in  itself ;  it  was 
a  pleasant  accompaniment  to  something  else  that  led 
somewhere. 

On  other  evenings,  when  Mr.  Carroll  must  speak  at  a 
banquet  or  welcome  some  visiting  potentate  of  the  Republi- 
can Party  (Mr.  Harding  was  nominated  by  now,  and  Mr. 
Carroll,  at  first  disappointed,  soon  perceived  that  the  choice 


The  Lonely  Warrior  283 

was  a  wise  one),  Stacey  would  sit  with  Catherine  or,  more 
often,  walk  with  her  in  the  garden. 

He  felt  that  he  did  not  know  Catherine  at  all,  and  he  was 
aware  that  this  was  partly  his  fault.  He  had  always  thought 
of  her  as  Phil's  wife,  and  she  still  evoked  for  him  the 
memory  of  Phil  rather  than  any  clear  image  of  her  own. 
Yet,  though  he  could  not  have  said  what  she  was  like,  he 
admired  her  more  than  any  one  else  he  knew.  It  was  no 
good  to  ask  himself  why.  He  could  say  vaguely  that  she 
was  clear  and  cool  as  deep  water  .  .  .  that  she  had  a  pro- 
found truthfulness  .  .  .  that  there  was  a  quality  of  Fact 
in  her: — what  did  all  that  mean?  Only  once  had  her  per- 
sonality touched  his  in  a  flash, — on  that  afternoon  when  she 
had  pleaded  with  him — but  commandingly  almost,  if  gently 
— not  to  go  to  Marian,  and  he  had  cut  her  with  cruel  words 
because  he  had  yielded.  He  bit  his  lip  in  shame  at  the 
thought. 

And  she  was  so  shy,  so  immensely  reserved.  She  was 
not  really  at  her  ease  with  him,  he  saw,  except  when  the  boys 
were  present  or  his  father.  She  would  talk  about  herself, 
when  Stacey  questioned  her,  as  though  she  were  talking  of 
some  one  else. 

"What  do  you  do  with  your  day,  Catherine?"  he  asked 
once.  "I  mean,  when  the  boys  are  away  at  school." 

This  seemed  to  startle  her,  rather.  "I — I  write,  or  try 
to,  regularly,  Stacey,"  she  replied,  after  a  moment. 

They  were  walking  in  the  garden,  and  he  paused  suddenly 
to  stare  at  her.  "You  mean— things  to  publish?"  he  cried, 
amazed. 

"Yes.  Does  it  seem  incredible?  I  suppose  it  does,"  she 
returned  simply. 

"No !  No !  I  don't  mean  that !  I  should  think  you  prob- 
ably had  more  to  say  than  any  one  else  I  know,  only — par- 


284  The  Lonely  Warrior 

don  me,  Catherine! — oh,  well,  let's  be  frank! — expression 
isn't  your  forte." 

She  laughed  shyly  at  this.  "It's  easier  when  you  write," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  of  course  it  must  be.    What  kind  of  things  ?" 

"Little  articles,"  she  replied  haltingly.  "Mostly  for  Eng- 
lish papers.  It's  hard  to  get  them  accepted  here.  One  or  two 
places — do — sometimes." 

"You'll  let  me  see  them  ?    Please !" 

"Never !"  she  exclaimed,  horrified.  "And  I  don't  sign  my 
own  name,  so  it's  useless  to  look." 

"You're  exasperating,  Catherine !"  he  cried,  and  meant  it. 
Then  he  laughed  suddenly.  "I'll  bet  they're  radical — oh, 
radical !  Tell  me,  Catherine,"  he  added  maliciously,  "when 
you've  gone  upstairs  after  my  father  has  talked  about  Bol- 
shevism at  some  length,  do  you  sit  down  then  and  write  your 
subversive  stuff?  A  double  life — that's  what  you're 
leading !" 

She  flushed  at  this  and  would  say  no  more. 

Yet  Stacey's  persistent  attempt  to  get  at  Catherine  was 
not  the  result  of  mere  curiosity,  even  the  curiosity  of  affec- 
tion. At  heart  he  felt  vaguely  that  she  was  immensely  lonely 
in  her  isolation,  in  great  need  of  sharing  her  grief  for  Phil 
with  some  one  else.  He  would  have  her  make  such  a  friend 
of  him  as  Phil  had  made  him, 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  1910  Harriet  Price,  Ames's  mother  and  widow  of  John 
Price,  who  had  been  head  of  the  Price  Tractor  and  Motor 
Company,  built  a  new  house.  In  1912  she  died,  and  the  man- 
sion, together  with  many  other  good  things,  among  them  a 
controlling  interest  in  the  tractor  company,  passed  to  Ames, 
the  only  child. 

The  house,  which  was  an  immense  square  building  of 
yellow  stone  in  the  Italian  Renaissance  style,  occupied,  with 
its  grounds,  an  entire  block  in  the  best  section  of  the  fashion- 
able boulevard.  Stacey  had  always  rather  liked  the  exterior, 
though  it  was  not  Parkins  and  May  but  a  Chicago  firm  of 
architects  who  had  built  the  house.  It  was  severe,  command- 
ing, less  inharmonious  in  Vernon  than  most  anachronisms, 
and  the  four  great  chimneys  were  really  fine.  Never  having 
cared  for  the  Prices,  Stacey  had  seen  the  interior  but  once— • 
at  a  large  house-warming  affair  given  in  the  winter  of  1910, 
to  which  he  had  gone  out  of  curiosity.  It  had  struck  him 
then  as  Chicago  decorators'  stuff  (which  it  was),  proper, 
faultlessly  in  period,  quite  without  character.  He  remem- 
bered perfectly  the  dreariness  of  his  impression. 

So  now,  when  he  entered  the  vast  hall,  his  first  glimpse  of 
it  made  him  aware  of  change. 

"Mr.  Carroll,  sir?"  asked  the  English  butler.  "Will  you 
go  upstairs,  please?  Mrs.  Price  is  expecting  you  there,  sir." 

"Yes,"  said  Stacey,  "half  a  minute."  He  walked  quickly 
across  the  hall  and  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  entrance  to 
the  great  drawing-room  on  the  left.  As  he  looked  in  he 
smiled,  half  appreciatively,  half  ironically.  Change?  WeW, 
rather !  To  begin  with,  Marian — it  was  Marian,  of  course — 

285 


286  The  Lonely  Warrior 

had  swept  away  pretty  much  everything  that  had  been  in 
that  room  when  Stacey  had  first  seen  it.  But,  even  sup- 
posing the  discarded  furniture  and  pictures  to  have  been 
sold,  he  hardly  thought  the  present  relative  bareness  had 
saved  Ames  money.  That  long  table,  the  Florentine  chest, 
and  the  copy  of  a  relief  in  marble  with  touches  of  blue  and 
gold  (Desiderio  da  Settignano?) — if  it  was  a  copy — h'm! 
He  turned  back.  "All  right,"  he  said  to  the  butler.  "I'll 
go  up." 

As  he  mounted  the  broad  stone  stairway,  the  man  follow- 
ing, his  glance  rested  on  a  tapestry — a  Medici  tapestry,  if 
he  knew  anything  about  it.  "Whew !"  he  thought.  But  his 
eyes  were  just  a  little  hard  now.  Marian  would  take  and 
take — and  give  nothing.  All  the  same,  what  did  she  get 
from  it?  Again  he  felt  suddenly  unreasoningry  sorry 
for  her. 

The  butler  conducted  Stacey  to  the  south  end  of  the  upper 
hall,  tapped  perfunctorily  at  a  door,  opened  it,  and  Stacey 
went  in. 

The  room  he  entered  was  a  small  sitting-room — Marian's 
own,  most  certainly — English  in  feeling,  crowded  with  a 
great  many  things.  Or,  rather,  no,  on  second  thought 
Stacey  knew  it  well: — it  was  like  what  pleasant  English 
people  did  sometimes  to  their  smallest,  best  loved  room  in  a 
Tuscan  villa.  The  French  windows  were  wide  open,  but  the 
heavy  wooden  shutters  were  closed  to  shut  out  the  heat,  so 
that  only  a  soft  summer  air  entered,  with  perfumes  from  the 
garden  outside.  There  was  a  kind  of  radiant  greenish  twi- 
light in  the  room. 

No  one  was  there,  though  a  flame  burned  beneath  a  silver 
kettle,  two  fragile  cups  stood  ready,  and  a  tea-wagon  with 
bread  and  butter  and  cake  was  drawn  up  near  the  table. 
After  perhaps  a  minute  Marian  entered  through  an- 
other door. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  287 

She  was  wearing  a  simple  dress  of  a  pearl  gray  color, 
short,  as  the  fashion  was,  and  with  a  silver  cord  about  the 
waist.  She  looked  as  Greek  as  any  one  or  anything  modern 
could  look,  and  Stacey  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  with  ad- 
miration of  her  beauty.  Nevertheless,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  her  and  replied  to  her  apparently  natural  greeting,  he 
was  wary.  All  this  delightful  readiness  for  his  visit,  the 
coziness,  the  shining  tea  things,  Marian  herself.  ..."  'I 
mistrust  the  Greeks  and  the  gifts  they  bring,' "  he  said  to 
himself  suddenly,  and  smiled,  rinding  the  quotation  apt, 
Marian  looking  as  she  did.  But  he  kept  it  to  himself. 

Marian  sat  down  at  the  table,  but  remained  for  a  moment 
gracefully  idle,  smiling  at  him,  before  beginning  to  make 
the  tea. 

"You  see  all  my  preparations,  Stacey,"  she  said  lightly. 
"You  see  what  an  event  it  is  when  you  come.  Aren't  you 
flattered?" 

"You  know  I  am,"  he  returned,  almost  disarmed  now  by 
her  remark.  And  this  was  true.  For  Stacey  was  genuinely 
anxious  to  be  friends  with  Marian.  After  all,  at  bottom  he 
was  a  simple  person.  That  is,  he  was  complex  only  on  his 
receptive  side.  He  could  perceive,  quite  without  effort,  the 
subtlest,  most  tangled,  personal  relationships  all  about  him, 
whether  or  not  he  was  himself  involved  in  them;  he  had 
always  been  able  to  do  this.  But  the  real  Stacey  Carroll  in 
the  centre  of  this  rich  shimmering  web  remained  simple. 
The  impulses  on  which  he  acted  were  simple,  almost  boyish 
sometimes. 

Marian  and  Stacey  were  both  silent  while  she  measured 
out  the  tea  and  poured  the  hot  water.  Gazing  at  her  so 
closely,  he  noted  that  she  was  very  thin.  Her  fine  pointed 
face  was  almost  sharp,  and  her  bare  arms,  lifted  prettily  to 
the  silver  urn,  were  too  slender.  Stacey  was  sorry.  But, 
considering  himself  questioningly,  he  recognized  that  this 


288  The  Lonely  Warrior 

half-pity  for  Marian,  together  with  an  artist's  admiration 
of  her  loveliness,  was  all  that  he  felt  for  her  now.  Abso- 
lutely all.  No  touch  of  love  remained.  And  Stacey  was 
immensely  relieved. 

"It  has  to  brew  seven  minutes,"  said  Marian,  glancing  at 
her  tiny  turquoise-incrusted  wrist-watch,  then  leaning  back 
in  a  corner  of  her  chair  and  resting  her  long  slim  hands  on 
one  arm  of  it. 

"Most  people  treat  tea-making  so  clumsily,"  Stacey  re- 
marked. "You  make  it  an  art,  just  as  you  do  with  all  the 
other  daily  things.  They  acquire  distinction.  That's  nice." 

"Thanks,"  she  said  idly,  "but  it's  only  that  it  tastes  better 
if  it's  made  right,  you  know." 

"And  isn't  that  something?  Marian,"  he  added,  noting 
that  her  fingers  were  quite  bare,  "don't  you  wear  your  rings 
any  more?" 

She  glanced  down  at  her  hands.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  don't 
like  them.  And  they  slip  off." 

"You  mustn't  let  yourself  get  so  thin,"  he  returned 
solicitously. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  hard  smile.  "Of  course  not.  I  must 
keep  myself  a  handsome  objet  d'art,  mustn't  I  ?  I  remember 
all  about  the  Parthenon,  Stacey." 

"No,  no !"  he  answered,  discouraged,  getting  a  glimpse  of 
her  antagonism,  "I  didn't  mean  that !  I  only  meant  that  you 
must  stay  well.  What  a  rotter  you  must  think  me,  to  take 
my  remark  like  that !  As  far  as  that  goes,  you're  more  beau- 
tiful at  present  than  I've  ever  seen  you,"  he  added  simply. 

But  he  saw  her  bite  her  lip  after  her  pettish  outburst,  and 
he  felt  lost — baffled.  To  save  him,  he  could  not  make  out 
what  she  was  after ;  whether  she  regretted  her  spiteful  little 
attack  because  it  was  not  in  line  with  a  carefully  prepared 
program  or  because  she  merely  wanted  to  be  friendly  and 


The  Lonely  Warrior  289 

hadn't  meant  to  grow  petulant.    His  mind  played  restlessly 
over  the  whole  situation  and  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

"Yes,  that  was  rather  nasty  of  me,  I  admit,"  said  Marian 
after  a  moment. 

It  was  some  little  time  before  she  could  again  conquer 
his  wariness,  but  she  did  so  at  last.  There  is  a  smooth 
disarming  intimacy  about  th»  tea-hour.  The  ceremony  of 
tea  itself  is  so  fine ;  it  is  elegant,  aloof  and  gracious ;  it  min- 
isters to  taste  yet  not  to  appetite;  people  are  not  there  to 
chew  and  be  nourished.  And  then  the  hour  itself  is  lovable 
— the  sun's  rays  growing  level,  dust  in  the  air  turned  golden, 
a  hush  perceptible  even  through  the  city's  noise.  Stacey 
surrendered  to  the  atmosphere  of  intimacy.  He  drank  the 
fragrant  China  tea  and  talked  without  restraint  of  a  number 
of  things.  Perhaps,  he  thought,  he  and  Marian  might  still 
be  friends.  He  had  treated  her  abominably  and  was  sorry 
for  it  now  that  he  understood  her  better,  though  she,  he 
admitted,  understood  him  better  than  he  her. 

They  could  be  silent,  too.    Pauses  were  not  awkward. 
"You  gather  so  much  fineness  together,  Marian,"  he  re- 
marked once.    "All  that  you  touch  becomes  fine,  turns  to 
gold."    He  ceased  abruptly.    That  was  the  wrong  allusion, 
he  thought,  annoyed  at  his  clumsiness. 

But  she  did  not  seem  to  mind  it.  "You're  really  quite 
kindly  toward  me,  aren't  you,  Stacey?"  she  replied,  with 
perhaps  just  a  hint  of  irony  in  her  voice,  but  smiling 
pleasantly. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be?" 

"No  reason  at  all,  of  course,"  she  said  prettily,  making 
him  a  mocking  little  bow.  "Have  some  more  tea." 

He  held  out  his  cup,  watched  her  fill  it,  then  set  it  down 
again,  all'  mechanically.  "People  get  in  states  of  mind — for 
no  particular  reason,"  he  said  vaguely,  feeling  apologetic  yet 


290  The  Lonely  Warrior 

not  wanting  to  go  into  the  matter — as  much  on  her  account 
as  on  his. 

"Yes,  and  then  into  others.  Tell  me : — do  you  feel  kindly 
toward  everybody  now  ?" 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  claim  that !"  he  replied 
uncomfortably.  It  went  against  his  whole  nature  to  talk 
about  himself  to  Marian,  yet  he  felt  he  owed  her  some  sort 
of  confession.  So  he  went  on  haltingly.  "I  used  to  get 
awfully  worked  up  about  a  lot  of  things — about  people 
being  greedy,  for  instance.  I  don't  mean  any  one  person — 
everybody,  whole  human  race.  But  then,"  he  concluded  diffi- 
dently, "it  struck  me  that  they  weren't  hateful  on  account 
of  it,  but  only  pathetic,  since  their  greed  never  brought  them 
happiness — never !" 

Marian's  face  was  half  turned  away  from  him  and  she 
was  resting  her  chin  in  her  cupped  hand — an  old  familiar 
pose — so  that  he  could  not  see  her  expression.  But  all  at 
once  she  dropped  her  hand,  lay  back  in  her  chair,  and 
laughed  musically,  startling  him. 

"Oh,  Stacey,  you're  so  funny !"  she  exclaimed.  "I've  told 
you  that  before.  But  I  think,"  she  added,  not  laughing  now, 
smiling  at  him  deliberately,  "that  I  liked  you  better  in  your 
fierce,  world-defying,  Byronic  stage,  when  you  were  so 
dramatic,  than  now  in  this  Christ-like  phase." 

He  winced  sharply.  She  had  really  hurt  him  there.  He 
despised  people  who  went  sweetly  through  the  world  doing 
good  to  others ;  which  was  what  she  meant.  Stacey  flushed 
hotly.  But  he  caught  a  fleeting  gleam  of  triumph  in 
Marian's  eyes,  and  at  this  his  anger  and  most  of  his  shame 
left  him,  and  he  only  felt  drearily  that  it  was  no  use,  she 
hated  him  and  had  got  him  there  on  purpose  to  take  this  sort 
of  small  revenge.  It  was  true  that  she  had  led  him  on  and 
stabbed  just  when  he  had  generously  disarmed;  she  had  not 
played  fair.  But,  after  all,  why  should  she  ? 


The  Lonely  Warrior  291 

She  baffled  him  to-day,  though.  He  thought  that  now  he 
was  in  for  it,  that  she  would  try  to  lead  him  into  some 
further  trap.  Instead,  she  grew  suddenly  listless,  talked 
indifferently  of  casual  things,  or,  again,  talked  rapidly  and 
artificially.  She  made  no  more  onslaughts,  was  rather  kind 
to  him  than  otherwise,  ringing  for  the  butler  to  bring  up  a 
brand  of  cigarettes  of  which  she  knew  Stacey  was  fond. 
But  he  felt  her  to  be  immensely  sophisticated,  with  no  girl- 
ishness  remaining.  Leaning  back  in  her  chair  she  had  the 
weary  perfection  of  something  finished,  complete  and  soul- 
less. There  was  no  trace  left  in  her  of  the  elfish  charm  for 
which  he  had  once  loved  her  idolatrously.  Nor  had  there 
been  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  afternoon  when  she  had 
seemed  fresh  and  spontaneous. 

She  went  down  to  the  door  with  him  when  he  left  her,  but 
she  shook  hands  almost  apathetically. 

He  puzzled  over  it  as  he  walked  homeward.  He  could  not 
understand  what  Marian  had  been  about.  Surely  she  had 
not  summoned  him  to  give  him  that  one  thrust.  She  was  too 
clever  not  to  have  been  able  to  do  more  than  that  if  revenge 
was  what  she  had  been  after.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
Marian  might  simply  have  been  intolerably  bored  and  have 
wanted  him  as  some  kind  of  relief,  to  cajole  or  stab  as  the 
mood  struck  her.  What  Stacey  did  feel  was  that  it  was 
restful  to  go  back  to  Catherine  and  his  father  from  so  much 
futile  complexity.  Not  that  they  were  so  limpid,  either, 
come  to  think  about  it;  Catherine  especially  wasn't.  But 
they  were  direct. 

The  interview  left  him  feeling  a  little  sore, — not  alto- 
gether, though  partly,  because  he  had  been  wounded  in  his 
self -esteem.  But  this  did  not  last ;  the  matter  was  too  trivial 
to  annoy  him  for  long.  He  forgot  all  about  it  in  his  work. 

It  was  just  two  weeks  later  at  about  four  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  door  of  Stacey's  office  was  thrown  open  and  Ames 


292  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Price  strode  in.  Stacey's  first  feeling  was  one  of  surprise 
and  repressed  amusement;  for  he  had  not  seen  Ames  since 
the  evening  of  the  outrageous  jest  played  on  him  at  the 
road-house.  Stacey's  second  emotion,  following  imme- 
diately, was  a  sick  comprehending  horror.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  known  everything  beforehand  in  a  dream  that  he  had 
forgotten  and  that  had  fought  in  vain  to  break  loose  and 
summon  him. 

Ames's  heavy  face  was  set,  in  a  struggle  for  self-control, 
and  his  voice  when  he  spoke  was  thick  and  difficult. 

"Come  with  me,  Carroll,"  he  stammered. 

Stacey  had  already  sprung  to  his  feet.  He  was  paler  than 
Ames.  "Yes,"  he  said,  and  snatched  up  his  hat. 

The  other  clenched  his  fists.  "You  mean  to  say — you 
know  already,  damn  you?  Some  one's  told  you?" 

"No,"  said  Stacey  dully,  "no.    Come  on !" 

"Slowly — through  the  office.  No  fuss.  Got  to  smile. 
Latimer  said  so."  It  was  as  though  Ames  were  reciting 
a  ritual. 

Together  they  went  down  in  the  elevator  and  out  of  the 
building.  It  was  August,  but  the  car  that  Ames  had  brought 
was  a  closed  car.  "Latimer  again,"  thought  Stacey,  with  a 
touch  of  loathing  beneath  the  horror  that  filled  his  mind. 
They  set  off  swiftly. 

"It's — Marian,"  said  Ames.  "She  shot  herself  this  morn- 
ing. Dying.  She — asks  for  you."  He  looked  at  Stacey — 
dully  rather  than  with  hatred. 

It  was  this,  of  course,  or  something  like  it,  Stacey  knew 
already;  but  to  hear  it  in  words  was  abominable.  A  chill 
ran  over  his  body.  He  felt  physically  nauseated.  He  set 
his  teeth. 

"In — much — pain?"  he  muttered. 

"No." 

The  car  drove  up  beneath  the  porte-cochere  of  the  Prices' 


The  Lonely  Warrior  293 

house,  and  the  two  men  got  out.  They  went  upstairs  to- 
gether silently. 

In  Marian's  exquisite  boudoir  stood  a  black  group  of  peo- 
ple. Stacey  recognized  none  of  them  at  first,  only  caught  a 
feeling  of  their  heavy  incongruity  in  that  place.  Then  he 
saw  that  Mr.  Latimer  was  one  and  that  another  was  a  doctor 
whom  he  knew.  There  was  a  nurse  also.  From  somewhere 
Mrs.  Latimer  appeared,  and  Stacey  perceived  that  she  was  a 
haggard  old  woman.  A  look  of  relief  softened  her  eyes  a 
very  little  at  sight  of  him. 

"She  wants  to  see  you,  Stacey,"  Mrs.  Latimer  murmured. 
"I'll  speak  to  the  doctor  inside,"  and  she  went  through 
a  door. 

Presently  she  returned  with  the  doctor.  "You  can  go  in," 
he  said. 

Stacey  pulled  him  aside  a  little  way.  "It  won't  do  any 
harm?"  he  demanded  hoarsely. 

"No,  no  harm.  Better  to  let  her  have  her  way.  There's 
nothing  to  be  done.  The  bullet  missed  the  heart  and  pene- 
trated the  lung  instead.  The  wound  is  dressed.  Be  as  calm 
as  you  can." 

"There's  no  hope?" 

"Not  the  faintest.  She  is — well,  there's  no  hope,"  replied 
the  doctor,  rather  kindly. 

"Just  a  minute,  then,"  said  Stacey.  He  leaned  against  a 
wall  and  struggled  for  composure.  Then  he  wiped  his  fore- 
head with  his  handkerchief.  "All  right,"  he  said,  and  went 
through  the  door  with  the  doctor  and  Marian's  mother. 

The  room  beyond  was  hushed,  cool  and  darkened.  Mrs. 
Latimer  led  Stacey  to  the  bedside,  then  withdrew  to  a  dis- 
tant corner  of  the  room  and  stood  there,  motionless,  with 
the  nurse  and  the  doctor.  When  he  looked  that  way  he 
could  see  them  like  dim  figures  in  the  background  of  some 
faded  Venetian  picture. 


294  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Is  that  Stacey  ?"  asked  a  thin  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  and  knelt  by  the  bed. 

Marian  was  propped  up  within  it,  and  her  face,  that  was 
turned  sideways  toward  him  on  the  pillows,  was  like  ala- 
baster, thin,  veined  and  bloodless;  but  her  beauty  was  un- 
marred,  heightened  even — like  a  statue  of  her  beauty.  The 
only  color  anywhere  was  in  her  bright  hair  that  was  spread 
about  the  pillow. 

"I'm  gl'ad  you've  come,"  she  said.    "Take  my  hand." 

He  did  so,  gently.  Her  voice  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
musical  murmur,  and  between  phrases  she  gasped  for 
breath.  "Don't  talk!"  he  begged.  "Let  me  talk  to  you, 
Marian." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  must  talk  to  you,  Stacey.  Not  much — 
only  a  little."  She  paused,  panting. 

Stacey  was  wrenched  with  pain.  This  was  unbearable. 
His  forehead  was  damp  with  sweat. 

"I  wanted — to  tell  you,"  she  went  on  almost  inaudibly, 
"oh,  lots  of  things !  Not  to  worry — for  one.  It's  just — as 
well.  Only — isn't  it  like  me,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"to  fail — even  in  this  ?" 

"Marian — please!"  he  muttered,  tightening  his  hold  on 
her  hand  for  an  instant.  It  was  the  pathos  of  her  frail 
attempt  at  cynicism  that  shook  him.  For  now  she  no  longer 
looked  the  weary,  perfect,  grown-up  woman;  she  seemed  a 
little  girl.  To  watch  her  die  was  like  watching  a  child  die — 
or  a  dream. 

"I  hurt  you,  Stacey.  I — didn't  mean  to,"  she  said  softly, 
and  managed  to  stroke  his  hand,  ever  so  faintly. 

It  was  perhaps  the  first  time  he  had  found  tenderness  in 
her.  He  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"I  must  say — what  I  have  to — quickly,"  she  went  on. 
"You  are  not  to — blame  yourself,  Stacey.  You  have — noth- 
ing— to — do — with — it."  She  paused  for  a  moment,  strug- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  295 

gling  for  breath.  "I  was — all  wrong — twisted.  You  were 
right.  You  couldn't  love  me — or  I  you — not  even  you.  I 
could  not  bear — life — any  longer — having  made — such  a 
mess — of  it." 

She  closed  her  eyes  weakly,  and  he  thought  that  she  slept 
or — had  died.  But  presently  they  fluttered  open  again. 
"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured,  "that  I  said — what  I  did — to 
you — the  other  day.  It  was  not — true — and  I  did  not  mean 
it — even  then." 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  in  a  choked  voice,  "don't,  Marian !" 

She  held  his  fingers  close.  "Poor  Stacey!"  she  whis- 
pered. "It's  not  your  fault." 

Again  she  paused.  And  after  a  moment  an  elfish  smile 
stirred  her  lips.  "Do  I  look — a  fright?"  she  asked. 

"No— lovely." 

"Well,  that's  good !"  she  murmured,  with  the  ghost  of  a 
laugh.  "Par — thenon." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  while. 

"Now  I'm  sleepy.  You  may — go.  But  first — kiss  me, 
Stacey  dear." 

He  bent  over  and  touched  her  white  cheek  with  his  lips, 
then  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  made  his  way  back  un- 
steadily to  the  others. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  muttered  hoarsely  to  the  doctor. 
"You'd  better  feel  her  pulse." 

The  doctor  went  quickly  to  the  bed,  then,  after  a  moment, 
returned.  "Just  the  same — or  only  a  little  weaker.  She's 
asleep,"  he  whispered. 

Stacey  looked  at  Mrs.  Latimer.  "I'll  go,  then.  You'll 
keep  me  informed — by  'phone?"  he  pleaded. 

She  nodded,  taking  his  hand  for  an  instant. 

He  returned  to  the  other  room,  dizzily.  "She's  sleeping 
just  now,"  he  said  to  Marian's  husband.  "Will  you — have 
your  car  take  me — home?" 


296  The  Lonely  Warrior 

They  went  out  into  the  hall  together.  Stacey  stumbled, 
and  Ames  grasped  his  arm  and  held  it. 

But  Mr.  Latimer  had  followed  them.  "Stacey,"  he  said, 
"just  a  moment." 

Stacey  turned  mechanically  to  stare  at  him.  Up  to  now 
he  had  only  been  vaguely  aware  of  the  man's  presence. 

"It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  for  me  to  warn  you  to  say 
nothing  of  this,"  said  Marian's  father  stonily.  "It  must  be 
kept  out  of  the  papers." 

It  was  just  what  Stacey  needed.  He  straightened  up, 
anger  rushing  through  him  like  a  hot  flood.  "Go  to  hell!" 
he  said,  then  swung  about  and  walked  quickly  and  firmly 
downstairs,  with  Ames  following. 

At  the  door  of  the  car  the  two  men  gazed  at  each  other 
helplessly.  There  was  no  antagonism  between  them  now. 
In  some  odd  way  they  were  even  united. 

"I'm  gl'ad  you  said  that  to  Latimer,"  Ames  remarked 
dully. 

So  was  Stacey  glad.  His  anger  was  all  that  sustained 
him  on  the  ride  home.  For  he  felt  that  everything  was  Mr. 
Latimer's  fault.  All  the  worst  of  Marian  he  had  given  her3 
Almost  he  had  pointed  the  revolver. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

STAGEY  let  himself  in  with  a  latch-key,  then  hurried  up 
the  stairs  to  his  own  rooms.  Once  in  his  study,  he  threw 
himself  down  upon  a  couch  and  lay  there  for  a  long  time, 
motionless,  his  hands  thrown  back  and  clasped  beneath  his 
head.  But  there  was  no  relaxation  in  his  stillness.  His 
body  was  tense,  and  now  and  then  a  spasm  contracted  the 
taut  muscles  of  his  face.  The  late  western  sunlight  poured 
in  through  the  windows  and  flickered  brightly  across  the 
wall,  and  the  shrill  distant  voices  of  children  at  play  were 
audible. 

At  last  Stacey  turned  his  head  slowly  to  1'ook  at  a  small 
travelling  clock  on  a  stand  «near  the  couch.  The  hands 
pointed  to  six-thirty.  He  got  up  with  an  effort,  pressed  the 
button  of  a  bell,  then  sat  down  at  his  desk,  rested  his  head 
in  his  hands,  and  stared  blindly  out  of  the  window. 

"If  Mrs.  Blair  is  in,"  he  said,  without  moving,  when 
Parker  entered  the  room,  "please  ask  her  if  she  will  be  so 
kind  as  to  come  up  here  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  and  went  out. 

Presently  Catherine  tapped  at  the  door,  and  Stacey  rose 
wearily.  "Come  in !"  he  called. 

She  looked  fresh  and  very  young  to  him  who  felt  so  old. 
"You  wanted  to  see  me?"  she  began,  then  broke  off  to  gaze 
at  him  in  alarm.  .  "Stacey !"  she  cried,  "what's  the  matter  ?" 

"Catherine,"  he  said  in  a  monotonous  voice,  "do  me  a 
favor,  please.  Tell  my  father  I  won't  be  down  to  dinner — 
and  why.  Marian  Latimer  shot  herself  this  morning.  She 
is  dying.  I  have  just  been  there.  It  has  rather  knocked  me 
out." 

297 


298  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Catherine  had  turned  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  wide  with 
horror.  "Oh!"  she  gasped,  then  suddenly  went  closer  to 
him.  "Stacey,"  she  said  gently,  "sit  down." 

He  obeyed  and  resumed  his  former  pose,  staring  again 
out  of  the  window.  "Don't  let  the  servants  hear  what  you 
say,"  he  went  on,  in  the  same  dead  tone.  "It's  to  be  kept 
secret.  And  don't  let  father  come  up  to  see  me.  He  would 
be  kind,  but  I  can't  see  him  now." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  sharply,  but  said  nothing, — only 
laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

At  this  he  swung  about,  as  though  the  touch  had  loos- 
ened something  within  him.  "It's  the  ghastly — waste 
that  gets  me — so  hard!"  he  cried,  his  face  set  with 
pain.  "Death  itself — that's  nothing !  An  episode !  But 
to  see  so  much  loveliness,  so  much  fineness,  all  go 
wrong — obliquely — to  futile  death  as  to — a  climax!  It's 
unbearable !" 

"Stacey!  Stacey!"  Catherine  whispered. 

"And  it's  all  my  fault—" 

"No!  No!  you  mustn't!" 

"But  yes !  My  fault !  If  I  could  only  have  gone  on  loving 
her,  or  if,  not  loving  her,  I  had  married  her,  things  might 
have  been  different.  Not  so — complete  a  mess !  We'd  have 
become  adjusted — somehow." 

Catherine  drew  up  a  chair  swiftly  and  sat  down  close  to 
him.  "Stacey,"  she  cried  unsteadily,  her  eyes  shining  with 
tears,  "I  beg  of  you — you  mustn't!  The  truth  is  bad 
enough, — ah,  please  don't  go  beyond  the  truth !  It  was  not 
your  fault — only  in  as  much  as  what  happens  to  any  one 
in  the  whole  world  is  one's  fault.  Poor  lovely  Marian! — 
there  was  something — I  don't  know — something  twisted  in 
her." 

At  this  and  at  the  soft  compassion  of  her  voice  Stacey 
looked  toward  Catherine  differently.  "Twisted — it  was 


The  Lonely  Warrior  299 

what  she  called  herself  only  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  said  in  a 
gentler  tone. 

They  were  silent  for  a  time.  Something  in  the  young 
woman's  clear  presence  comforted  him. 

"She  looked  like  a  little  girl,  Catherine,"  he  said  at  last, 
only  sorrowfully.  "You  would  not  have  known  her.  And 
so  beautiful!  Oh,  wicked!"  Again  his  face  contracted. 

And,  indeed,  though  he  did  not  see  it  at  the  moment,  as 
poignant  an  emotion  for  him  as  any  in  all  the  tragedy  lay 
in  the  destruction  of  so  much  sheer  beauty.  Afterward, 
weeks  afterward,  he  perceived  this,  and  recognized  with 
pain  that  Marian  herself  had  understood  it,  even  tenderly 
at  the  last. 

The  bell  of  the  telephone  on  Stacey's  desk  rang,  and  he 
reached  slowly  for  the  receiver.  Catherine  gazed  at  him 
apprehensively,  but  he  spoke  quietly  enough,  just  a  few 
words,  in  reply  to  the  message,  then  hung  up  the  receiver 
and  turned  to  Catherine. 

"She  is  dead,"  he  murmured.  "She  died  in  her  sleep. 
She  never  waked  after  I  left  her." 

There  was  nothing  to  say.  The  two  sat  there  in  silence 
for  some  minutes. 

"You  must  go  down,  Catherine,"  Stacey  said  finally.  "It 
is  almost  seven.  Thank  you." 

She  rose  reluctantly.  "You'll  let  me  have  something  sent 
up  to  you?" 

"No !  No !  I  can't  eat !"  he  exclaimed  with  revulsion.  "I 
have  to  think,"  he  added,  "of  what  to 'say  to  Mrs.  Latimer. 
I  must  go  to  see  her  after  a  while.  What  can  I  say  ?" 

Catherine  gave  him  a  look  in  which  there  was  something 
like  pride.  But  all  that  she  answered  was  that  he  must  eat 
something ;  then  went  out. 

He  sat  there,  reflecting  painfully.  He  felt  tired,  hopeless, 
alive  in  a  dead  empty  world,  but  he  was  less  tense  now. 


300  The  Lonely  Warrior 

After  a  while — in  half  an  hour,  perhaps — the  door  opened 
and  Catherine  herself  came  in  with  a  tray. 

He  smiled  faintly  at  this.  "You  will  have  your  way, 
won't  you?"  he  remarked;  but  he  ate  a  little  while  she  sat 
watching  him. 

"Stacey,"  she  asked  diffidently,  when  he  had  finished, 
"should  you  like  me  to  go  with  you  ?" 

"To  Mrs.  Larimer's?"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh,  would  you? 
But  no,"  he  added  impatiently,  "why  should  I  lay  things  on 
you?" 

"You  won't  be  doing  that.  If  I  could,  perhaps,  share  a 
little,  I  should  be  glad.  You've  had — nearly  enough,  I 
think." 

"You're  kind,"  he  said  gruffly.    "All  right.    Come." 

"Now?" 

He  nodded. 

"Then  I'll  go  for  a  wrap  and  come  back  at  once." 

"Oh !"  he  said,  with  a  start,  when  she  returned,  "I  must 
order  the  car  brought  around."  And  he  reached  for  the 
telephone. 

"It's  at  the  door,"  she  replied  simply. 

And  when  they  went  down  the  stairs  they  met  nobody 
either  there  or  in  the  hall.  That,  too,  was  Catherine's 
work,  he  thought  with  a  softening  touch  of  gratitude. 

He  sat  silent  during  the  ride,  trying  to  think  what  he 
should  say  to  Mrs.  Latimer.  But  he  could  find  nothing; 
he  could  only  trust  to  the  moment.  It  was  a  horrible  task. 
Yet  he  was  not  undertaking  it  as  a  duty ;  he  was  going  only 
because  he  was  overwhelmingly  sorry  for  his  old  friend 
and  concerned  about  her.  At  any  rate,  Catherine's  quiet 
presence  was  of  some  help.  He  felt  her  as  not  weak  in  her 
compassion  but  strong. 

It  demanded  a  real  effort  for  him  to  ring  the  bell  of  the 


The  Lonely  Warrior  301 

Latimers'  house,  but  he  did  so,  and  after  a  little  while  a 
maid  opened  the  door. 

"Has  Mrs.  Latimer  got  back  yet?"  Stacey  asked  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Yes,  sir,  but — she  said — " 

"I  know.  That  she  could  not  see  any  one.  But  she  will 
want  to  see  me,  I  think.  Just  let  me  go  quietly  in.  She 
is  in  the  drawing-room  ?" 

"Yes,  sir, — with  Mr.  Latimer." 

Stacey  winced.  This  made  it  harder.  But  he  went  quietly 
through  the  hall  and  into  the  familiar  room ;  and  Catherine 
followed  him,  a  step  or  two  behind.  Just  across  the 
threshold  he  paused. 

Only  a  single  shaded  reading-lamp  was  burning,  and  that 
at  the  farthest  corner  of  the  long  room;  so  that  the  part 
nearest  Stacey  was  all  in  darkness.  At  first  the  only  person 
in  the  room  appeared  to  be  Mr.  Latimer,  who,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  was  pacing  up  and  down  across 
the  far  end  of  it,  from  lamp  to  window  and  from  window 
to  lamp.  When  he  approached  the  lamp  and  turned,  his 
face  was  illuminated  from  below,  so  that  the  chin  and  the 
delicate  selfish  mouth  showed  clearly,  while  the  eyes  and 
forehead  remained  shadowy.  Stacey  could  not  conquer  his 
feeling  of  bitter  hardness.  The  man  was  suffering,  no  doubt, 
in  his  own  way,  but  he  was  not  generous  enough — so  Stacey 
thought — to  suffer  deeply.  He  looked  proud  even  now, 
when  it  was  no  time  for  pride ;  he  should  have  been  comfort- 
ing his  wife.  And  what  had  he  done  ?  What  had  he  done  ? 
Could  he  not  understand  ? 

But  Stacey  gave  him  only  a  moment  of  thought.  His 
eyes  were  searching  the  room  for  Mrs.  Latimer.  And  pres- 
ently he  found  her — a  wrecked  huddled  figure  on  a  couch 
just  opposite  him.  Her  face  was  hidden  among  the  cush- 


302  The  Lonely  Warrior 

ions;  only  her  hair,  her  dark  dress,  and  one  clenched  hand 
were  visible. 

Stacey  took  a  step  forward.     "Mrs.  Latimer,"  he  said. 

She  sat  up  with  a  gasp ;  but  it  was  her  husband  who  spoke. 
"Who  is  there?"  he  called  sharply,  pausing  and  gazing 
toward  Stacey. 

"It  is  Stacey  Carroll,  sir." 

Mr.  Latimer  stiffened.  "This  is  no  time  for  you  to  come 
to  this  house,"  he  said  coldly.  "You  should  know  that.  I 
do  not  wish  to  see  you." 

"No,"  Stacey  replied.  "But  I  came  to  see  Mrs.  Latimer — 
unless  she  would  prefer  not  to  have  me." 

The  woman  on  the  couch  leaned  forward.  "Oh,  yes, 
Stacey!"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  that  went  to  his  heart.  He 
was  sure  of  himself  now;  he  was  indifferent  to  what  Mr. 
Latimer  might  say. 

The  older  man  stood  there,  erect  in  the  lamplight,  hand- 
some, implacable,  but  to  Stacey  non-existent.  "Either  you 
or  I,  Carroll,  must  leave  this  house,"  he  said  haughtily. 
"Both  of  us—" 

But  at  this  Mrs.  Latimer  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  totter- 
ing a  little.  "Then,"  she  cried,  in  a  tense  voice  that  told 
Stacey  much,  "it  must  be  you,  Herbert !  /  wish  to  see 
Stacey.  Oh,"  she  murmured  weakly,  but  with  relief,  "and 
Catherine — you've  come!  How — good!"  And  she  sank 
down  again  upon  the  couch. 

As  Stacey  moved  toward  her  he,  too,  for  a  moment 
thought  of  Catherine.  He  knew  well  how  shy,  how  retiring, 
even  how  shrinking  she  was  by  nature ;  yet  all  through  this 
brief  unpleasant  scene  he  had  felt  her  standing  there,  gently 
strong,  not  wincing. 

But  Mr.  Latimer  said  only:  "As  you  please,"  and  left 
the  room. 

Stacey  knelt  on  the  rug  before  the  couch,  but,  though 


The  Lonely  Warrior  3°3 

Mrs.  Latimer  touched  his  hair  tremblingly  and  had  sent 
away  her  husband  to  have  him  there,  it  was  to  Catherine 
that  she  turned,  clasping  her  hand  and  making  the  young 
woman  sit  down  close  beside  her  on  the  divan. 

The  half-hour  that  followed  was  atrocious,  worse  than 
anything  Stacey  had  ever  been  through.  For  he  had  seen 
bodies  shockingly  tortured  and  minds  driven  to  madness 
by  pain  and  terror,  but  this  was  the  destruction  of  a  noble 
personality,  of  a  character  built  up  bravely  through  long 
effort;  it  was  the  negation  of  everything.  And  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  in  the  broken  phrases  that  Mrs.  Latimer  cried 
out — sometimes  to  him,  mostly  to  Catherine — traces  re- 
mained of  her  high,  clear,  unified  intelligence,  like  drifting 
debris  of  a  wrecked  ship.  "My  little  girl !  My  poor  baby !" 
she  broke  out  once.  "A  child  again  only  when— dying! 
Wasted — wasted — all  for  nothing,  a  whole  life !  Oh,  it's  my 
faultj — no,  his!  his!  his!"  (this  with  a  terrible  fierceness). 
"No,  mine,  too !  mine,  too !" 

But  there  were  pauses  of  exhaustion  between  her  out- 
bursts, and  after  a  while  she  grew  slightly  calmer,  merely 
clinging  to  Catherine,  who  spoke  little,  but  in  a  tone  of  in- 
finite tenderness.  Beneath  everything  else  Stacey  felt  an 
awe  of  Catherine  for  her  deep  calm  that  expressed  the 
very  opposite  of  indifference.  As  for  himself,  he  could  find 
nothing  to  do  (which  was  perhaps  as  well)  save  once  to 
slip  out  into  the  hall  and  telephone  the  doctor  whom  he  had 
seen  at  Marian's  bedside,  to  say  that  he  must  come  with 
something  to  put  Mrs.  Latimer  to  sleep. 

"If  I  make  you  some  chocolate,  dear,  you  will  drink  it, 
will  you  not?"  asked  Catherine  at  last,  pleadingly. 

"If  you  wish,"  Mrs.  Latimer  answered,  worn  out  and 
quieted. 

But  she  kept  the  young  woman's  hand  tight  clasped  in 
hers,  so  that  Catherine  looked  up  at  Stacey  for  a  moment 


304  The  Lonely  Warrior 

with  a  faint  questioning  smile.  For  the  first  time  tears 
started  to  his  eyes;  there  was  so  much  of  selfless  weary 
beauty  in  the  look  she  gave  him.  He  nodded,  went 
quickly  out  to  the  kitchen,  found  the  scared  cook,  and  pres- 
ently himself  brought  in  the  chocolate,  which  Mrs.  Latimer 
drank  with  trembling  gulps,  Catherine  holding  the  cup. 

Then  the  doctor  came  and  with  Catherine's  help  put  Mrs. 
Latimer  to  bed,  while  Stacey  waited  below. 

At  last  Catherine  came  down  again  and  they  went  out 
to  the  car.  Her  face  looked  tired  and  drawn.  The  strain 
had  been  horrible.  Stacey  himself,  who  had  perforce  borne 
so  small  a  share  of  it,  was  ready  to  drop. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  almost  timidly  after  a  moment. 
"I'm  sorry  not  to  have  been  able  to  do  more.  It  wasn't 
fair  to  you.  You  did  so  much." 

"I  ?"  she  exclaimed,  but  she  was  resting  her  head  against 
the  upholstered  back  of  the  seat.  "Poor  lady!"  she  mur- 
mured then.  "So  pitifully — broken!  It  wasn't  only — her- 
self that  Marian  hurt." 

"I  don't  suppose  it  ever  is,"  said  Stacey  wearily. 

Catherine  gave  him  a  look  of  sympathy.  "Can  you  sleep, 
do  you  think  ?"  she  asked. 

But  at  this  he  sat  erect.  "I  refuse  to  have  you  bother 
your  head  about  me  too,"  he  said  sharply.  "Yes,  I  know 
I  can  sleep." 

Mr.  Latimer  and  the  others  interested  succeeded  in  keep- 
ing the  truth  hidden.  Officially,  even  according  to  the  ac- 
count given  by  the  sensational  evening  paper,  the  death  was 
an  accident — there  had  been  burglaries,  the  times  were  un- 
safe, there  was  a  wave  of  crime  in  Vernon,  Marian  had 
been  placing  a  revolver  in  the  drawer  of  her  desk,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  Privately  no  one  believed  the  story,  and  the 
various  things  that  people  did  believe  were  too  wild  to  de- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  3°5 

serve  mention.  But  officially  every  one  believed  it.  Offi- 
cially every  one  in  Vernon  always  believed  what  he  should. 
This  was  Vernon's  great  strength. 

Stacey  did  not  recover  easily  from  the  shock.  Perhaps 
it  even  worked  some  permanent  change  in  him.  For  it  left 
him  bruised,  saddened,  yet  somehow  calmer  and  cooler.  He 
worked  tremendously  at  the  office,  and  in  the  days  immedi- 
ately following  the  tragedy  did  indeed  value  his  work  mostly 
as  a  means  to  temporary  forgetfulness.  He  saw  but  few 
people,  and  only  two  or  three  of  these  willingly,  for  he 
found  it  hard  to  talk.  He  was  glad  enough  to  see  Edwards 
now  and  then  at  the  luncheon  hour — at  least  after  their 
first  meeting,  when,  to  excuse  the  manner  he  simply  could 
not  help,  Stacey  felt  obliged  to  tell  him,  who  came  from  an 
outside  world,  that  Marian  Price  had  been  an  old  friend 
and  that  he  was  pretty  cut  up  by  her  death ;  which  was  hard. 
Yet  Edwards'  gruff  awkward  expression  of  sympathy  was 
not  unpleasant. 

Stacey's  memory  of  Marian  was  as  of  something  delicate, 
lovely  and  frustrated,  and  it  was  softened  by  that  final  un- 
wonted touch  of  tenderness  she  had  shown;  but  he  could 
never  quite  forgive  Marian  what  she  had  done  to  her  mother. 
In  this  she  had  been  her  father's  daughter.  Callous  toward 
others,  the  Latimers!  Hard,  at  bottom. 

He  went  as  often  as  he  could  to  see  Mrs.  Latimer,  or 
took  her  out  with  him  into  the  park.  She  recovered  from 
the  terrible  prostration  of  that  first  night,  even  quickly ;  she 
regained  an  adequate  composure  of  manner ;  and  her  sensi- 
tive receptive  mind  was  intact.  She  had  always  had  the 
faculty  of  true  intuition,  which  is  (as  opposed  to  the  false 
intuition  that  means  merely  guessing)  the  faculty  of  think- 
ing so  swiftly  that  the  logical  steps  along  the  way  are  barely 
brushed  by  the  flying  thought,  and  the  conclusion  is  so 
quickly  reached  that  to  the  breathless  beholder  it  appears  to 


306  The  Lonely  Warrior 

have  been  attained  at  one  leap.  This  faculty  she  did  not 
lose.  But  in  her  own  attitude  toward  the  world  she  was 
sadly  changed,  no  longer  a  strong  flexible  personality  armed 
with  a  gentle  irony,  giving  more  than  she  took,  unafraid  of 
facts ;  she  had  become  a  weak  shaken  woman,  with  no  shel- 
ter for  her  sensitive  soul.  Almost  terrified  she  seemed  at 
times.  And  it  was  Stacey  who  now  tried  to  give  her  the 
support  she  had  formerly  tried  to  give  him. 

He  noted  one  peculiarity  that  seemed  rather  horrible  to 
him.  For  at  least  two  months  after  Marian's  death  Mrs. 
Latimer  could  not  see  her  husband  enter  a  room  where  she 
was  without  giving  a  shudder  of  revulsion  at  his  presence. 

One  thing  of  good  Stacey  had  gained  from  the  tragedy. 
He  knew  Catherine  now.  Not  entirely,  by  any  means ;  but 
it  was  as  though  he  had  found  a  key  to  the  locked  door  of 
her  personality,  and  had  opened  the  door  and  stepped  inside 
just  a  little  way.  The  intense  shyness  that  wrapped  her 
about  had  nothing  to  do  with  self-consciousness ;  he  had  al- 
ways known  that.  Now  he  began  to  understand  that  the 
noble  quality  of  her  self  lay  in  her  very  selflessness.  She 
barely  thought  of  herself  consciously  at  all;  and  thus  to 
have  others  do  so  disturbed  her.  She  gave  and  gave  and 
took  nothing.  It  was  through  her  immense  capacity  for 
pity — not  a  pity  whimpering  weakly  over  a  wretched  world, 
but  a  strong  useful  pity — that  one  got  to  know  her.  She  had 
given  so  much  of  her  selflessness  to  Stacey  at  the  time  of 
the  catastrophe  that  she  had  given  of  herself,  too ;  she  could 
not  now  take  back  what  she  had  given,  even  if  she  wished 
to  do  so.  He  was  shocked  and  numbed  by  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  she  continued  instinctively  to  give  him  all  the 
quiet  lavish  help  she  could.  She  was  giving  perhaps  more 
than  she  knew. 

One  day  she  even  brought  him  one  of  the  articles  she  had 
written  for  a  London  weekly.  She  was  humble  about  it, 


The  Lonely  Warrior  307 

but  at  heart  he  was  even  humbler ;  for,  simply  worded,  with 
no  pretence  at  decoration,  a  brief,  clearly  stated  apology  for 
the  "Let-us-eat-drink-and-be-merry"  attitude  of  the  day,  it 
radiated  a  gentle  warmth  of  feeling.  Afterward  she  showed 
Stacey  other  articles. 

Generally  he  trod  very  carefully,  taking  pains  to  say  noth- 
ing that  might  drive  this  half-held  prodigal  friend  back  be- 
hind shadowy  barriers  of  reserve.  But  one  Sunday  after- 
noon in  October,  when  they  had  gone  for  a  walk  in  the 
country,  and  the  boys  up  ahead  were  plunging  deliriously 
through  heaps  of  dead  leaves,  he  suddenly  turned  on  her. 

"Catherine,"  he  said,  "you  give  so  much — always!  But 
you  cannot  be  all  selflessness.  There  must  be  a  hidden  self 
in  you  that  could  take  a  little." 

She  gave  him  a  startled  look  and  did  not  speak.  It  was 
as  though  she  had  retreated  to  a  great  distance.  Still  she 
was  there.  He  had  thought  she  might  vanish  utterly. 

"I  think  it's  a  kind  of  shy  maiden-self  that  you  neglect," 
he  added.  "You  know  next  to  nothing  about  it." 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "I  do  take !" 

But  he  was  astonished  and  remorseful  to  perceive  that  her 
lips  were  trembling  and  her  eyes  moist. 

"Did  I  shock  you,  Catherine?"  he  exclaimed.  "Silly  med- 
dler I  am !  I've  no  business  to  bother  you." 

"No,  no,"  she  returned,  "it's  not  that!  It's  only  that 
you're  so  kind." 

"I !"  he  cried  in  amazement. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  then  suddenly  smiled  at  his 
expression. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  helplessly,  "if  prying  into  your 
thoughts  can  be  called  kindness  .  .  ."  and  paused. 

"The  kindness  is  in  what  you  do  it  for,"  she  said  quietly, 
and  they  came  up  with  the  boys. 

It  was  far  closer  than  he  had  ever  approached  her  before. 


308  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey's  intimacy  with  his  father,  too,  was  closer  since 
the  tragedy.  Mr.  Carroll  could  hardly  be  expected  to  under- 
stand the  strange  relationship  that  had  held  Marian  and 
Stacey  together  and  apart ;  he  did  not  even  have  the  neces- 
sary facts  to  go  on.  But  he  saw  with  all  his  direct  clearness 
the  effect  of  Marian's  sudden  death  on  his  son,  and  was  very 
kind,  and  tactful  as  well.  He  even  took  obvious  pains  to 
avoid  discussion  of  subjects — such  as  Bolshevism,  labor  and 
the  Republican  Party— on  which  he  perhaps  fancied  his  son 
did  not  at  heart  agree  with  him.  This  touched  Stacey,  but 
was  quite  unnecessary.  Stacey  had  no  more  interest  in 
Bolshevism  or  the  other  things  than  in  the  Mabinogion. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  November  a  strike  of  the  street-railway  employees  broke 
out.  The  company,  which  had  applied  for  and  obtained  a 
seven-cent  fare  six  months  earlier,  had  now  asked  for  the 
right  to  raise  it  to  ten  cents.  The  city  council  refused; 
whereupon  the  company,  alleging  its  inability  to  carry  on 
at  even  a  modest  profit  under  the  existing  costs,  declared  a 
twenty  per  cent,  cut  in  wages,  and  the  employees  struck. 
The  clash  was  fierce  and  there  was  much  violence. 
The  company  imported  strike-breakers  from  Chicago,  they 
were  mobbed,  there  were  deaths,  the  militia  was  called  out, 
and  a  few  empty  cars  with  shattered  windows  ran  occasion- 
ally up  and  down  the  city  streets. 

Stacey  was  not  particularly  interested,  having  other 
things  to  think  about.  He  barely  glanced  at  the  news  head- 
lines and  smiled  ironically  as  he  did  so,  knowing  that  Colin 
Jeffries,  who  had  a  controlling  interest  in  the  stock  of  the 
street-railway  company,  also  virtually  owned  the  evening 
(Republican)  paper  and  was  engaged  in  many  business 
enterprises  with  the  owner  of  the  morning  (Democratic) 
paper.  As  for  the  editorial's,  he  would  no  more  have  read 
them  than  he  would  have  read  the  latest  novel  by  Harold 
Bell  Wright.  But  sometimes  his  father  read  them  aloud  at 
table  in  a  tone  of  fierce  assent,  and  thus  Stacey  learned  that 
they  were  all  about  "one  hundred  per  cent.  Americanism" 
and  the  duty  of  labor  to  yield  something,  just  as  capital  was 
yielding  something. 

However,  one  afternoon  Edwards,  whom  Stacey  had  not 
seen  for  a  week,  suddenly  entered  the  office. 

309 


310  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Hell'o !"  cried  Stacey  cordially.  "Come  in.  Where  have 
you  been?" — then  broke  off  at  sight  of  the  other's 
appearance. 

Edwards  was  unshaven  and  rather  dirty,  and  his  eyes 
glowed  darkly  in  his  tense  face.  He  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  then  sat  down  opposite  Stacey  at  the  desk. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Carroll,"  he  said.  "It's  about 
the  strike." 

"All  right,"  said  Stacey.  "I  hardly  know  anything  about 
it,  haven't  followed  it." 

Edwards'  eyes  suddenly  blazed.  "No,"  he  cried,  "of 
course  not!  What's  it  all  matter  to  you?  You're  all  right! 
You're  not  your  brother's  keeper!  It — " 

"Now  look  here,"  said  Stacey,  firmly  but  pleasantly 
enough,  "cut  out  the  class  business,  will  you?  You  know 
that's  not  the  way  you  feel  about  me  or  you  wouldn't  be 
coming  here  to  see  me.  I  haven't  a  doubt  but  that  the  men 
are  right  in  this  strike,  but  the  reason  I've  kept  off  the  sub- 
ject as  much  as  possible  is  because  I  don't  see  what  in  the 
world  I  can  do  about  it,  and  I  don't  know  anything  worse 
than  futile  sentimental  sympathy." 

"I  apologize,  Carroll,"  Edwards  returned  moodily.  "I 
didn't  mean  that,  of  course.  And  I'd  probably  better  apolo- 
gize in  advance  for  anything  else  I  may  break  loose  and 
say.  I  haven't  had  much  sleep  lately." 

"That's  all  right,"  Stacey  replied.  "Go  as  far  as  you 
like." 

"Carroll,"  said  Edwards  painfully,  "we're  beaten.  I 
mean,  on  every  big  thing.  There  isn't  going  to  be  any 
change  in  the  rotten  system,  not  for  now.  There  isn't  going 
to  be  any  revolution.  There  isn't  going  to  be  a  beginning  of 
socialism,  all  men  sharing  tasks,  each  according  to  his 
capacity.  There's  just  going  to  be  the  same  tyranny  there's 
always  been,  the  same  exploitation  of  a  lot  of  men  by  a  few. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  311 

/ 

I  tell  you,  I'm  broken-hearted!"    He  paused,  his  face  set. 

"You  must  be,"  said  Stacey,  "if  you  hoped  for  that." 

"Oh,  I  did  and  I  didn't !  I  thought  maybe — but  now  this 
strike,"  he  went  on  sharply.  "Six  months  ago  there'd  have 
been  a  general  strike  in  sympathy.  Every  workman  in  the 
city  would  have  downed  tools.  Not — now !  We're  beaten, 
I  tell  you!  There  are  thousands  of  unemployed,  winter's 
here,  coal  costs  what  you  know,  the  men  don't  dare. 
Beaten !  You've  heard  what  one  of  the  big  employers  said 
openly — that  pretty  soon  the  men  would  be  eating  out  of 
their  hands !  And  here  am  I  righting  for  this  puny  little 
thing — that  men  be  doled  out  enough  to  exist  on !  And  fight- 
ing in  vain !" 

Stacey  looked  at  him  with  silent  sympathy. 

"Here!"  said  Edwards,  tearing  papers  from  his  pocket. 
"Here  are  the  figures.  Here's  what  it  costs  a  family  of 
three  to  live — Government  statistics.  Here's  what  the  men 
were  getting.  Here's  what  they're  to  get  now  if  they  yield." 
He  pushed  the  papers  across  the  table. 

Stacey  fingered  them,  but  kept  his  eyes  on  his  friend.  "I 
know,"  he  said.  "I  can  imagine  without  studying  them. 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Edwards  nervously.  "I'd  thought  of 
two  or  three  things.  If  you  were  to  print  the  facts — just 
the  facts — with  your  name  signed  to  them,  in  one  of  the 
papers.  .  .  ." 

Stacey  smiled  bitterly.  "Fat  chance!  How  much  of  a 
power  in  this  town  do  you  think  I  am  ?  Don't  you  know  that 
Colin  Jeffries,  who  owns  the  street-railway,  controls  the 
papers  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  damn  him !"  Edwards  burst  out.  "He's 
everywhere!  You  can't  get  out  from  under  his  shadow." 

"And  even  if  I  could  get  such  an  article  printed,  what 
would  it  accomplish?  When  did  the  public  ever  budge? 


3T2  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Inert  mass  of  sheep !  And  all  the  time  the  papers  harping 
on  the  idea  that  the  street-railway  company  can't  pay  its 
stock-holders  even  a  nominal  interest  on  their  investment 
under  current  conditions." 

"Well,"  Edwards  fairly  shouted,  "and  if  they  can't!  Do 
you  know  anything  about  that  company  ?  I  do.  I've  looked 
into  it  with  a  lawyer.  Way  over-capitalized.  Three  mil- 
lions of  water,  Carroll, — three  cool  millions  into  private 
pockets!  So  men  must  starve,  must  they,  to  pay  interest 
on  that  stock?" 

Stacey's  face  was  grim.  "No,"  he  said  shortly,  "I  hadn't 
looked  into  it,  but  it  doesn't  surprise  me.  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
could  do,"  he  said  hesitatingly  after  a  moment.  "I — er — the 
only  available  income  I  have  is  what  I  make  here  at  the 
office.  I  could  turn  over — say  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
a  month  of  it  to  the  union.  And  I  might — that  is,  I  don't 
know  what  my  sister  does  with  her  income — gives  most  of 
it  away,  I  fancy — but  I  dare  say  she'd  put  in  as  much  more." 

Edwards  stared.  "Say,"  he  said  shakily,  "that's  decent! 
I  thought  you  had — well,  it's  none  of  my  business.  But  it 
wouldn't  be  any  use,  Carroll.  Not  a  hundredth  part  enough. 
But— thanks !" 

"Oh!"  said  Stacey  deprecatingly,  then  fell  to  thinking. 
"Look  here,"  he  remarked  finally,  "there's  only  one  thing 
I  can  think  of,  and  it  will  have  to  be  you  to  do  it  rather  than 
'I.  Also  it's  only  a  faint  chance.  Now  my  father  is  an 
honest  man — set  in  his  beliefs,  but  honest.  And  he's  also 
influential.  Colin  Jeffries  probably  defers  as  much  to  him 
as  to  any  one  living,  because  father's  very  likely  the  only 
thoroughly  honest,  disinterested  friend  Jeffries  has.  Father 
believes  in  the  principles  Jeffries  only  exploits  to  make 
money  out  of.  If  you  can  get  him — my  father,  I  mean — on 
your  side,  he  might  take  the  matter  up  to  Jeffries 
personally." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  3X3 

Edwards'  face  expressed  extreme  dislike  of  the  sugges- 
tion. "Can't  say  I  care  much  for  the  idea — like  begging  for 
what  you've  a  right  to." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  would.  But  I  estimate  that  what 
you're  out  for  is  to  save  a  living  wage  for  these  men — by 
any  means." 

"Yes,"  Edwards  muttered,  "I'd  do  anything.  But  how  on 
earth  could  I  swing  your  father  into  line  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Stacey  slowly,  "come  out  to  the  house  this 
evening  at  eight-fifteen,  just  when  dinner's  over,  and  talk 
to  him,  ahvays  about  the  personal  side,  the  facts  of  it,  show 
him  the  figures,  and  keep  away  from  all  discussion  of  prin- 
ciples! Appeal  to  his  sense  of  fair  play  to  get  him  to  go 
down  with  you  to-morrow  morning  and  see  the  men 
themselves." 

Edwards  reflected.    "All  right,"  he  said  sullenly,  and  rose. 

"Mind  now!"  Stacey  called  after  him,  "no  principles!" 

Stacey  made  himself  very  agreeable  at  dinner  that  eve- 
ning. He  was  keyed  up  by  anticipation,  his  eyes  glowed,  and 
he  looked  younger.  There  was  an  added  warmth  in  the 
harmony  that  had  been  lately  achieved  in  the  Carroll  house. 
But  Stacey  saw  Catherine  glance  at  him  wonderingly.  It 
wasn't  possible  to  hide  feelings  from  Catherine. 

He  caught  her  alone  for  a  moment  on  the  way  to  the 
library.  "Now  listen !"  he  said.  "You  stick  by  me.  Don't 
budge  from  the  library.  And  support  me  in  every  way 
you  can." 

Her  dark  eyes  were  curious,  but  her  lips  curved  faintly 
into  a  smile — perhaps  at  his  tone  of  command,  that  was  so 
unlike  his  customary  tone  with  her. 

He  would  explain  nothing,  however;  only  marched  her 
on  down  the  hall.  And  a  very  few  minutes  later  Parker 
came  in  to  say  that  a  Mr.  Edwards  had  called. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Stacey  exclaimed,  "he's  a  friend  of  mine! 


314  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Bring  him  in,  Parker, — or,  no,  I'll  go  get  him  myself,"  and 
he  went  out.  "Take  it  easy  now,  and  no  principles,"  he 
growled  to  Edwards,  as  he  piloted  him  in. 

"Father,"  Stacey  remarked,  "this  is  my  friend,  Edwards, 
— was  commander  of  the  Legion  post,  you  know.  Mrs. 
Blair,  Mr.  Edwards." 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  shaking  hands. 
His  face  had  assumed  its  keen  yet  non-committal  business- 
look.  Mr.  Carroll  knew  something  about  Edwards,  of 
course,  and  disapproved  of  what  he  knew,  but  he  was  a 
courteous  gentleman  in  his  own  house;  such  a  man  as  Mr. 
Latimer,  artistically  conscious  of  every  attitude,  could  not 
have  expressed  the  situation  more  nicely. 

"I  wanted  to  say  a  few  words  to  you,  sir,  about  this 
strike,"  Edwards  began,  sitting  down  awkwardly  in  the 
chair  toward  which  Stacey  had  impelled  him. 

Mr.  Carroll  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  gnawed  at  his 
moustache,  his  eyes  grew  harder,  and  he  shot  one  swift 
angry  glance  at  Stacey. 

Up  to  now  Stacey  had  been  rather  pleased  with  himself ; 
he  thought  he  had  engineered  things  well.  It  suddenly 
struck  him  that,  instead,  he  had  made  a  mess  of  them.  His 
father  was  angry  with  him,  and  therefore  more  hostile  to 
Edwards.  And  Edwards  was  nowhere  near  at  his  best; 
he  was  gauche,  heavy,  impressed  by  his  surroundings — it 
had  never  occurred  to  Stacey  that  he  might  be, — and  corre- 
spondingly resentful.  Oh,  Lord!  Stacey  looked  across 
helplessly  at  Catherine. 

She  had  poured  out  another  cup  of  coffee  and  now  handed 
it  to  the  guest.  "Will  you  have  sugar,  Mr.  Edwards?" 
she  asked. 

"No — no,  thank  you !"  he  replied,  startled,  and  took  the 
cup  gingerly.  He  looked  as  though  he  would  much  rather 
have  refused  it  had  he  dared. 


The  Lonely  Warrior 

Mr.  Carroll  turned  his  eyes  back  to  the  young  man.  "I 
have  no  connection  with  the  street-railway  company,  Mr. 
Edwards,"  he  said  deliberately,  choosing  his  words  with 
care.  "On  the  basis  of  such  information  as  I  have  been 
able  to  obtain  in  regard  to  the  strike  my  sympathies  are  with 
the  company.  I  fail  to  see  why  capital  should  have  to  make 
all  the  sacrifices  and  labor  none.  But  since  you — and  Stacey 
— wish  it,  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  you  state  the  men's  side  of 
the  case.  I  should  think,  however,  that  some  official  of  the 
street-railway  company  would  be  the  proper  person  to 
hear  it." 

Edwards,  who  had  flushed,  made  a  quick  angry  gesture. 
But  this  almost  upset  the  fragile  cup  that  he  held;  so  he 
was  forced  into  restraint.  He  drank  his  coffee  hastily  be- 
fore replying. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  began  then,  "Carroll — I  mean  Stacey — 
thought  if  I  could  give  you  the  facts  as  I  did  to  him  you'd 
maybe  see  them  our  way.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  prin- 
ciples, sir — " 

"Why  not?" 

Edwards  glanced  wrathfully  at  Stacey.  "Because  we 
wouldn't  agree  about  them  and  there  wouldn't  be  any  use  in 
our  trying  to."  His  hand  trembled  slightly,  and  the  tiny 
silver  spoon  rattled  against  his  coffee  cup;  so  he  rose  and 
limped  over  to  a  table  to  rid  himself  of  the  nuisance  once 
for  all. 

Catherine  leaned  forward.  "Stacey  told  me  you  had  been 
wounded  in  the  war,  Mr.  Edwards,"  she  said  softly. 

He  looked  toward  her.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  returned,  "at 
Les  Eparges.  My  right  leg  was  rather  shot  to  bits." 

Stacey  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  He  hardly  thought  Cath- 
erine was  being  deliberately  tactful;  she  had  spoken  impul- 
sively. But  the  result  was  excellent.  And  Edwards  in  the 
tone  with  which  he  replied  to  Catherine  revealed  that  old- 


316  The  Lonely  Warrior 

fashioned  attitude  of  deference  toward  women  just  as 
women,  which  was  also  Mr.  Carroll's  attitude. 

"I  hope  they  fixed  you  up  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Carroll 
gruffly. 

"Pretty  well,  thanks.  I  happened  to  draw  a  good 
surgeon." 

As  for  Stacey,  he  said  nothing  at  all.  He  had  that  much 
sense  anyway,  he  told  himself.  He'd  have  to  face  his  father 
later  on ;  for  the  present  he  wanted  to  be  as  nearly  forgotten 
as  possible.  So  he  sat  still  and  commented  silently  on  the 
shifting  fortunes  of  the  battle. 

"Have  a  cigar,  Edwards  ?"  asked  Mr.  Carroll,  holding  out 
his  case.  (Good!  There  was  a  touch  of  something  more 
personal  in  this.) 

"No,  thank  you,  sir."  (Oh,  confound  it!  why  didn't  he 
take  one?). 

Edwards  drew  his  papers  from  his  pocket.  "Mr.  Car- 
roll," he  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  at  all  about  so- 
cial theories  or  about  what  sort  of  stock  it  is  that  the  street- 
railway  company  wants  to  pay  dividends  on."  ("Well, 
damn  it,  then,  don't!"  cried  Stacey  internally.)  "I  only 
want  to  show  you,  in  figures,  the  condition  of  the  employees 
just  as  men ;  what  they  were  getting,  what  they're  going  to 
get  if  they  accept  this  cut  in  wages,  what  it  costs  a  family 
of  three  to  live  to-day."  And  he  began  to  read. 

He  did  not  read  aloud  very  well.  He  stuttered  a  little 
over  a  word  now  and  then.  But  there  was  an  intensity  in 
his  deep  voice  that  lent  an  odd  warmth  to  the  figures  about 
groceries,  fuel,  wages,  and  the  rest.  Mr.  Carroll  must  see 
that  the  man  was  in  deadly  earnest. 

When  he  had  finished  reading  he  stretched  out  the  papers. 
''Want  to  see  them  ?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

Mr.  Carroll  shook  his  head.  He  was  frowning  and  chew- 
ing at  the  end  of  his  cigar.  "The  trouble  is,"  he  began,  but 


The  Lonely  Warrior  317 

with  less  than  his  usual  firmness,  "that  you  can't  separate 
facts  from  principles.  Labor — " 

"Oh,"  cried  Catherine  suddenly,  "you  must !" 

Two  of  the  three  men  started  and  turned  toward  her; 
Stacey  had  been  looking  at  her  already. 

But  Catherine's  eyes  were  fixed  now  on  the  guest.  "Do 
you  mean,  Mr.  Edwards,"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  that  revealed 
both  compassion  and  scorn,  "that  the  highest  wage  of  any 
employee  would  be  only  forty  cents  an  hour?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Edwards  bitterly,  "if  they  accept  the 
cut  in  wages." 

"And  are  there  many  families  of  three?" 

"Most  are  a  good  deal  more  than  three,"  he  replied. 
"About  twenty  per  cent,  of  the  men  are  unmarried  and  per- 
haps bring  the  average  down  to  three." 

Catherine's  face  had  an  odd  expression.  Stacey  thought 
she  looked  like  a  sorrowful  goddess.  "Before  my  husband 
died,"  she  said,  "we  were  a  family  of  four.  We  were  living 
on  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month,  and  you  thought, 
Mr.  Carroll,  that  we  had  to  live  too  sordidly.  You  will  do 
something  ?" 

He  gazed  at  her  kindly,  but  did  not  reply  at  once. 

Stacey  was  touched  by  the  mention  of  Phil.  The  thought 
of  Phil  was  with  him,  almost  like  a  gentle  presence,  very 
often.  Catherine  spoke  of  him  seldom  but,  when  she  did 
so,  quite  simply  and  naturally,  as  now.  She  must  miss  him 
sadly,  Stacey  thought,  and  felt  grieved  for  her.  But,  since 
it  was  his  instinct  to  carry  through  unswervingly  anything 
he  had  undertaken,  he  was  also  exultant,  as  well  as  faintly 
amused  at  his  father,  who  was  being  swept  away  from 
principles  at  every  turn,  simply  not  permitted  to  play 
with  them. 

"I  can't  say  I  like  those  statistics,"  said  Mr.  Carroll  at 
last,  more  to  Catherine  than  to  Edwards.  Then  he  turned 


318  The  Lonely  Warrior 

to  the  latter.  "But  I'd  have  to  know  more.  I'd  have  to 
look  into  things.  And  then  I  don't  know  what  I  could  do 
about  it;  I  might  do  something,  I  suppose.  Confound  it! 
sir,"  he  exclaimed  impatiently,  "why  didn't  you  take  this  up 
with  some  official  of  the  company  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  know  more,  sir,"  Edwards  returned 
eagerly.  "I'd  like  it  if  you'd  go  down  with  me  and  see  some 
of  the  strikers  man  to  man,  get  their  story." 

Mr.  Carroll  reflected,  frowning.  "All  right,"  he  said 
sharply.  "Come  to  my  office  to-morrow  morning  at  nine." 

Catherine's  face  fairly  shone,  and  Mr.  Carroll,  looking 
back  at  her,  relaxed  his  sternness  and  leaned  over  to  pat 
her  hand. 

"May  I  go,  too?"  she  asked  of  them  both. 

"Yes,  ma'am!"  said  Edwards,  getting  up.    "I'd  like  that." 

He  made  his  adieux  clumsily,  with  too  much  formality, 
and  Stacey  accompanied  him  down  the  hall  to  the  door. 

"Well,"  Edwards  remarked,  "that's  something,  I  sup- 
pose,— thanks  to  Mrs.  Blair.  Precious  little  help  you  were, 
though,  Carroll !" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Stacey  cheerfully,  "I  messed  things  up 
properly.  But  then,  look  at  you!  What  the  devil  do  you 
mean  by  behaving  like  a  resentful  commoner  at  a  court 
function  ?  Go  on  home,  you  sulky  snob !"  he  added  with  a 
laugh,  and  pushed  his  friend  out  of  the  door. 

Then  he  returned  to  the  library. 

His  father  and  Catherine  were  stiting  there  in  silence,  she 
gazing  away  with  dark  abstracted  eyes,  he  frowning  slightly 
and  staring  down  at  a  closed  magazine  on  which  he  tapped 
nervously  with  his  fingers.  He  looked  up  and  turned  to 
Catherine  as  Stacey  entered. 

"You  a  member  of  this  conspiracy,  Catherine?"  he 
asked  quietly. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  3*9 

"No,"  Stacey  exclaimed  promptly,  "she  wasn't!  Didn't 
know  a  thing  about  it.  It  was  all  my  damfoolishness." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  and  rose.  "I'll  go  to  bed,  I 
think.  Good  night." 

But  Stacey  set  his  back  against  the  door.  "No,  sir,"  he 
returned,  "let's  have  this  out.  I'll  concede  that  I  was  wrong 
to  do  this  in  this  way.  Now  you  go  ahead  and  tell'  me  some 
more  things." 

His  father  stood  there,  looking  at  him  keenly,  antagon- 
istically, judging  him.  Mr.  Carroll's  upper  lip  was  drawn 
in  a  little,  and  there  was  a  harshness  about  his  face.  One 
could  see  that  he  had  fought  hard  fights  in  life  and  that  he 
was  still  an  adversary  to  be  reckoned  with. 

"I  am  not  aware,"  he  began  coldly,  "of  being  in  my  dotage 
— yet.  If  anybody  wants  anything  from  me  the  thing  for 
him  to  do  is  to  come  and  ask  me  for  it ;  then  if  I  think  he 
ought  to  have  it  he'll  get  it.  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  be  cos- 
seted and  cajoled  into  a  good  humor  so  that  something  can 
be  wormed  out  of  me." 

Absolutely  justified  his  father  was,  Stacey  thought  help- 
lessly. "You're  perfectly  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  I  apolo- 
gize. My  only  excuse  for  not  being  frank — and  I  admit  it's 
not  good  enough — is  that  I  was  so  confoundedly  anxious 
for  you  to  hear  Edwards'  story,  and  was  fool  enough  to 
think  you  might  refuse  if  I  asked  you  to,  point-blank." 

For  just  an  instant  Stacey  glanced  away  to  Catherine  and 
saw  with  sharp  regret  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  pain.  Why 
the  devil  had  he  let  her  in  for  this?  Then  he  looked  back 
at  his  father. 

But  Mr.  Carroll's  wrath  was  not  assuaged,  and  when  he 
spoke  again  Stacey  perceived  that  a  long  resentment,  dan- 
gerously repressed,  had  burst  loose  finally. 
"You  take  me  for  a  damned  fool,"  Mr.  Carroll  went  on 


320  The  Lonely  Warrior 

angrily.  "I'm  a  fool  perhaps,  but  not  a  damned  fool.  Do 
you  think  I  can't  see  how  you  humor  me  ? — the  nice,  kindly, 
tolerant  spirit  you  show  for  my  foibles,  your  'poor-dad-he's- 
growing-ol'd'  attitude !  Superior,  sir !  Intolerably  superior !" 

This  was  pretty  bad,  and  all  the  worse  for  the  tiny  ele- 
ment of  truth  it  contained.  "Now  look  here,  dad !"  Stacey 
pleaded.  "That's  not  so.  There  isn't  anybody  in  the  world 
I  respect  more  than  I  do  you.  Why — " 

"Extraordinary  method  of  showing  it  you  take,  then!" 
snapped  his  father.  "Respect — nothing !  At  heart  you're  a 
Bolshevist,  sir.  Well,  then,  if  you  are,  be  one !  You're  not 
consistent.  You're  a  Bolshevist  in  theory"  ("Oh,  Lord!  I 
haven't  got  any  theories !"  Stacey  thought,  but  did  not  try 
to  say),  "a  millionaire  in  practice.  I  gave  you  a  tidy  for- 
tune. You  took  it,  didn't  you  ?  You  live  here  with  me  in  a 
certain  amount  of  luxury.  Well,  why  do  you  ?  Why  don't 
you  go  and  live  in  a  hut?"  He  paused,  out  of  breath, 
glaring  at  his  son. 

Stacey  was  pale ;  for  this  hurt.  But  he  was  further  than 
before  from  losing  his  temper,  since  now  the  attack  was 
unjust.  To  his  amazement,  and  certainly  to  Mr.  Carroll's 
as  well,  it  was  Catherine  who  lost  her  temper — or  almost. 

"Mr.  Carroll !"  she  cried — and  both  men,  turning  suddenly 
toward  her,  saw  her  standing  erect,  a  slim  firm  figure  with  a 
•face  of  angry  beauty.  "That's  unfair  and  cruel  and  not  like 
you !  I  know  that  Stacey  cares  less  for  money  than  any  one 
else  in  Vernon — and  it  is  a  shame  that  it  should  have  to  be 
I  to  say  so.  He  lived  for  four  years  in  mud  and  horror 
because  he  hoped  it  would  do  some  good.  It's  wonderful 
that  when  he  came  back  and  seemed  to  find  that  it  hadn't 
done  any  good  he  could  keep  his  sanity.  And  still  he'd  go 
and  live  like  that  again  if  it  were  of  any  use.  And  you  ac- 
cuse him  of  living  here  because  of  the  luxuries  you  give  him ! 
He  lives  here  because  of  his  affection  for  you  and  because 


The  Lonely  Warrior  32 r 

of  the  affection  he  thought  you  had  for  him.  It's — shameful 
— what  you  said!"  She  ceased  and  sat  down  again,  her 
breath  coming  fast,  her  lips  quivering. 

Stacey  gazed  at  her,  his  heart  beating  rather  quickly ;  he 
was  overwhelmed  with  the  number  of  his  emotions.  He  was 
astounded  at  the  brave  magnificent  way  she  had  spoken, 
proud  that  it  was  in  his  cause,  deeply  touched,  and  somehow 
profoundly  sad. 

As  for  Mr.  Carroll,  he  looked  in  a  dazed  way  from  Cath- 
erine to  his  son.  "There  is  no  excuse  for  what  I — said  to 
you,  son,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  don't  suppose  you  can  forgive 
me.  Try  to,  if  you  are  able." 

Stacey  walked  over  and  shook  his  hand.  "Oh— er — 
shucks,  dad !"  he  muttered.  "It's  all  right— forgotten."  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  apologize 
to  any  one  for  anything. 

Mr.  Carroll  gave  his  son  a  strange  wistful  look  of  grati- 
tude, then  went  over  to  Catherine.  "Are  you  going  to  let 
me  sit  down  beside  you,  Catherine?"  he  asked.  "You're 
not  going  to  pack  up  and  leave  the  house  just  because  your 
host's  an  old  fool?" 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  strangled  voice,  giving  him  her  hand, 
but  keeping  her  face  averted,  so  that  neither  he  nor  Stacey 
could  see  it. 

"I'm  not  altogether  an  old  fool1,  my  dear,"  he  added,  pat- 
ting her  hand ;  then  got  up  again.  "Er — a  game  of  pinochle, 
Stacey?"  he  suggested. 

Stacey  nodded,  and  moved  to  get  the  card  table.  "Sure ! 
I'd  like  one.  But  you  don't  really  think  you've  any  chance 
against  me,  do  you,  dad?"  he  said  shakily. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AT  breakfast  next  morning  no  allusion  was  made  to  the 
promised  excursion  with  Edwards,  but  Stacey  was  confident 
of  its  success.  On  this  account,  as  well  as  on  others,  he  was 
glad  of  last  night's  storm.  For  he  knew  his  father.  Mr. 
Carroll  might  fancy  that  principles  were  the  foundation  of 
his  life;  they  were  not,  they  were  mere  dead  wood.  First 
and  last  it  was  by  personal  relationships  that  he  was  swayed. 
It  was  this  that  gave  him  his  sweetness,  his  directness,  his 
genius  for  holding  friends,  his  absolute  inability  to  be  impar- 
tial. He  would  have  made  a  very  poor  judge.  As  a  result 
of  the  quarrel  he  would  be  unavoidably  on  Edwards'  side — 
because  it  was  Stacey's  side. 

Mr.  Carroll  was  nearly  always  gay  at  breakfast;  on  this 
morning  he  was  delightful.  But  he  did  not  tease  Catherine, 
as  he  often  tried  to  do.  Instead,  he  joked  with  the  boys, 
with  great  detriment  to  their  table  manners,  and  reduced 
Jackie  in  particular  to  a  condition  that  shocked  even  Carter. 

As  for  Catherine,  she  seemed  to  Stacey  shyer  than  usual, 
more  withdrawn.  This  was  natural,  he  thought.  After 
that  splendid  outburst  in  defence  of  him  she  must  of  course 
retreat  hurriedly  into  herself.  Which  was  rather  obtuse 
of  Stacey,  since  he  should  surely  have  known  by  now  that 
for  Catherine  giving  was  not  logically  followed  by  taking 
back,  but  by  further  giving.  At  any  rate,  despite  her  silence, 
he  felt  a  closeness  to  her,  a  deep  intimacy  with  her.  There 
was  a  touch  of  melancholy  at  his  heart,  too ;  for  he  felt  more 
than  he  cared  to  admit.  He  did  not  venture  to  speak  much 
to  Catherine — only  a  few  matter-of-fact  words.  Ah,  well, 

322 


The  Lonely  Warrior  323 

last  evening's  scene  had  temporarily  stripped  off  too  many 
discreet  veils,  left  emotions  too  naked;  by  to-night  every- 
thing would  have  become  normal  again.  Yet  Stacey  did  not 
precisely  envisage  this  certainty  with  satisfaction. 

He  motored  into  town  with  his  father  and  Catherine,  but 
left  them  at  the  door  of  the  Carroll  Building  and  went  on 
to  his  own  office. 

He  worked  that  morning  with  less  complete  absorption 
than  usual,  and  at  half  past  twelve  went  to  the  lunch-room, 
hoping  to  find  Edwards. 

Edwards  was  not  there,  but  before  Stacey  had  finished 
eating  he  came  in,  looking  radiant.  "It's  all  right,  Carroll," 
he  said  gaily,  limping  over  with  a  sandwich  and  coffee. 
"Your  father  saw  things  our  way.  There's  something  pretty 
fine  about  him.  You  can't  help  liking  him.  And  then  Mrs. 
Blair,  well,  she's  just  a  wonder — the  real  thing !" 

Stacey  was  rather  calmer.  "What  did  father  say  he'd 
do?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  he  was  non-committal,  of  course!  Said  he  didn't 
know  whether  he  could  do  anything,  but  he'd  try.  Re- 
marked that  Colin  Jeffries  was  a  fair  man,  one  of  the  fairest 
he  knew,  also  a  great  citizen!  And  I  was  a  lamb,  Carroll, 
swallowed  that  without  even  a  gulp!  So  it's  pretty  clear 
he's  gone  to  take  the  thing  up  with  Jeffries — or  will  go." 

Stacey  considered  his  friend  curiously.  Extraordinary, 
this  thinking  in  classes !  Edwards  did  not  think  of  capital- 
ists as  men ;  he  thought  of  them  as  parts  of  a  whole,  which 
was  capital.  It  was  only  capital  he  thought  about  really,  as 
something  with  an  existence  of  its  own.  So  he  took  it  for 
granted  that  if  you  swung  over  one  capitalist  to  your  side 
you  could  swing  the  whole,  just  as  when  you  pulled  back  the 
lever  of  an  engine  you  set  the  entire  machine  in  motion. 
Neat,  very, — but  not  true.  Stacey  himself,  though  he  had 
suggested  the  scheme,  was  far  from  confident  that  his  father 


324  The  Lonely  Warrior 

could  bring  Colin  Jeffries  around,  because  Stacey  saw  the 
problem  as  a  personal  problem. 

"Well,"  he  said  soberly,  "I  hope  father  can  pull  it  off. 
Come  on  up  to  the  office." 

They  sat  in  Stacey's  room  and  smoked  silently. 

"Mrs.  Blair  is  a  corker!"  Edwards  announced  suddenly. 
"The  best  ever !  Do  you  raise  many  like  her  in  your  caste  ?" 

Stacey  smiled.  "Not  so  you'd  notice  it,"  he  returned 
drily. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  that.  I  should  hate  to  find  some  real 
reason  for  the  existence  of  your  plutocratic  bunch." 

"Oh,  you  make  me  tired !"  said  Stacey  wearily.  "You  talk 
like  a  child.  At  heart  you  have  a  kind  of  idea  that  the 
people  I  know  are  different  from  you.  You  resent  it,  but 
you  have  a  secret  feeling  that  they're  superior — Olympians. 
That's  because — " 

But  at  this  point  in  his  attack  the  telephone  bell  rang  and 
he  lifted  the  receiver. 

"That  you,  Stacey?"  said  his  father's  voice,  and  Stacey 
knew  at  once  that  the  attempt  had  failed.  "I  saw  Colin 
Jeffries  about  that  matter,  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  But  I 
couldn't  budge  him.  Said  he'd  do  anything  else  in  the  world 
for  me,  but  that  in  the  matter  of  this  strike  he  couldn't  even 
"hear  of  a  compromise.  Said  he'd  be  going  back  on  every 
principle  he  had  if  he  did.  That  it  had  come  to  a  show- 
down. Was  business  to  be  run  as  an  efficient  competitive 
proposition  with  moderate  financial  reward,  or  was  it  to 
become  a  charitable  institution  with  the  investors  as  do- 
nators?  He  made  a  strong  case  for  his  stand — unanswer- 
able logically.  All  the  same  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  I've  heard  those  statistics  from  Edwards  and  I've 
seen  some  of  the  men.  It's  not  just  that  they  should  have 
to  live  like  that." 


The  Lonely  Warrior  325 

"What  did  Jeffries  say  when  you  pointed  that  out  ?" 

"Said  he  was  sorry  for  the  men  and  their  wives,  very,  but 
that  he  had  to  think  of  the  stock-holders  also.  That  they, 
too,  were  men  and  women,  though  you  couldn't  get  an 
employee  to  see  it." 

"Neat  point,"  Stacey  remarked.  "Jeffries  owns  two- 
thirds  of  the  common  himself.  I've  seen  the  list  of  the 
other  stock-holders.  There  is  one  widow  among  them. 
I'd  be  willing  to  defray  her  losses  myself." 

"I'm  sorry,  son."  (Mr.  Carroll's  voice  was  regretful.) 
"I'd  like  to  have  got  this  through  for  you — and  because  I 
think  it's  right,  though  of  course  my  convictions  on  the 
labor  and  capital  situation  in  general  remain  unchanged." 

"Of  course." 

"But  I  did  what  I  could." 

"I  know  it,  dad,"  said  Stacey.  "Edwards  will  know  that, 
too.  Thanks,  just  as  much  as  if  you'd  brought  it  off.  Good- 
bye. See  you  at  dinner." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  then  looked  across  at  Edwards. 
"Nothing  doing,"  he  said,  his  face  impassive. 

Edwards'  face  had  flushed  a  dull  crimson,  and  his  jaw 
was  set,  so  that  there  was  an  effect  of  massive  squareness 
about  his  head.  His  eyes  glowed. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  thickly,  "so  I  judged.  Bombs,  Carroll, 
nice  little  hand-grenades, — that's  what's  wanted !" 

"I  agree,"  said  Stacey  coolly.  "It  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
toss  one  at  Jeffries;  but  that's  no  use.  Never  was.  The 
reaction  swings  you  back  to  below  where  you  started." 

"You're  so  damned  cold-blooded  about  it !"  Edwards  cried 
furiously.  "Can't  you  put  yourself — " 

"Shut  up !"  said  Stacey  harshly.  "I'm  twice  as  angry  as 
you  are — and  I'm  going  to  take  a  hand  in  this  somehow." 

And,  in  truth,  an  observer  studying  the  two  men  care- 
fully would  have  ended  by  believing  Stacey  the  more  dan- 


326  The  Lonely  Warrior 

gerous.  With  only  a  little  extra  tautness  in  the  muscles  of 
his  face  to  alter  his  appearance,  there  was  yet  something 
hard  and  ruthless  in  his  expression.  It  was  quite  clear  that 
if,  as  Stacey  had  learned,  nothing  of  his  fanciful,  fastidious, 
early  self  had  really  vanished,  neither  had  anything  vanished 
of  that  embittered,  stony,  cold-and-passionate  self  he  had 
brought  back  from  the  war.  This  morning  while  he  was 
at  work  his  thoughts  about  the  strike  and  about  Mr.  Car- 
roll's undertaking  had  been  haphazard,  interrupted  by  warm 
memories  of  the  scene  at  home  the  night  before.  Now 
Stacey's  whole  mind  was  concentrated  in  a  kind  of  chilly 
fierceness  on  the  single  problem  of  how  he  could  force  Colin 
Jeffries  to  yield. 

"It's  got  to  be  personal  fighting — no  principles ;  they're  no 
good,"  he  thought.  "Now  what  handle  have  I  got?  What 
do  I  know  about  Jeffries?" 

In  response  to  this  way  of  putting  it,  a  casual  winter- 
night's  memory  flashed  into  his  mind.  Of  course!  He 
threw  up  his  head  and  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"I've  got  a  sort  of  half-idea,  Edwards,"  he  observed. 
"Maybe  it  will  work  out.  Now  you  run  along  and  let  me 
think  it  over.  See  you  to-morrow." 

Stacey  sat  there,  reflecting  intensely,  for  perhaps  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Then  he  got  up,  went  out,  and  walked  over  to 
the  building  in  which  Colin  Jeffries  had  his  office. 

The  millionaire's  large  outer-office  was  full  of  men  wait- 
ing. They  sat  singly  or  in  groups  and  talked  in  low  tones. 
Some  of  them,  men  prominent  in  one  business  or  another, 
Stacey  recognized  and  nodded  to.  He  gave  his  card  to  a 
ypung  man — some  sort  of  secretary,  probably — who  prom- 
ised to  take  it  in  to  Mr.  Jeffries  but  said  he  feared  there 
wasn't  the  slightest  chance  of  seeing  him  this  afternoon 
except  by  appointment. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  327 

"Take  the  card  in,  anyway,"  Stacey  remarked,  and 
sat  down. 

Less  than  ten  minutes  later  the  secretary  returned,  ob- 
viously impressed,  to  say  that  Mr.  Jeffries  would  see  Mr. 
Carroll  now;  then  conducted  him  to  the  financier's  pri- 
vate office. 

"Come  in,  Stacey,"  said  Mr.  Jeffries  cordially,  getting  up 
to  shake  hands.  "Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Stacey,  and  did  so,  across  the  table  from 
the  millionaire. 

This  being  called  by  his  first  name  amused  him.  It  must 
be  meant  as  a  kingly  compliment  by  Mr.  Jeffries,  since  he 
and  Stacey  had  not  met  above  half  a  dozen  times— or  per- 
haps it  was  to  aid  in  the  effect  of  cordiality.  But  there 
were  many  other  things  besides  amusement  in  Stacey's  mind. 
He  was  thinking  swiftly,  taking  stock  of  his  adversary,  all 
in  the  brief  interval  while  he  accepted  and  lighted  a  courte- 
ously preferred  cigarette. 

This  cordiality  now, — it  was  not  a  warmth  radiating 
from  inner  good  will ;  it  was  external,  a  fire  built  on  snow. 
He  felt  the  man  as  cold — perhaps  cruel,  too.  If  so,  cold 
even  in  his  cruelty.  Stacey  felt  aversion,  something  in  that 
personality  was  rasping  to  him ;  but  he  was  far  from  feeling 
contempt.  He  recognized  that  he  was  encountering  a  strong 
and  steely  character,  not  one — like  most — only  apparently 
strong.  Not  a  touch  here  of  the  business-man  as  shown  in 
romances  or  movies,  no  nervous  movement  of  papers,  no 
abstracted  air  of  meditation  on  vast  enterprises.  Mr.  Jef- 
fries did  not  even  say  that  he  could  spare  Stacey  a  few 
minutes  of  his  time ;  he  was  as  leisurely  as  though  he  were 
lounging  at  a  club.  Yet  the  man  was  intensely  busy  from 
morning  to  night,  and  at  this  moment  his  outer-office  was 
crowded  with  those  waiting  to  see  him. 


328  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"It  was  about  the  street-railway  strikers  that  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you,  Mr.  Jeffries,"  said  Stacey,  blowing  out  his 
match.  (There  had  only  been  that  much  of  a  pause.) 

A  1'ook  of  regret  came  over  the  millionaire's  face.  "I'm 
sorry,  Stacey,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head  slowly,  "but 
there's  nothing  I  can  do.  I  explained  my  position  to  your 
father  this  morning." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  did,"  Stacey  continued  carefully.  "But 
you  and  he  are  so  much  alike"  (they  were  alike  super- 
ficially ;  Stacey  disclaimed  almost  passionately  that  there  was 
any  deep  likeness)  "that  I  feel  sure  you  must  both  see  this 
trouble  as  a  matter  of  principle,  as  labor  versus  capital,  as  a 
strike, — not  as  men  striking.  The  men  can't  live  on  the 
wages  you're  offering  to  pay  them,  Mr.  Jeffries.  Can't 
—live." 

"And  the  company  can't  live  and  give  them  any  better 
ones,"  returned  Mr.  Jeffries  quietly. 

Stacey  did  not  express  his  opinion  of  the  company's  right 
to  life.  He  attended  quietly  to  what  Mr.  Jeffries  said.  All 
this  was  no  use,  anyway. 

"There's  more  in  this  than  you  see,  Stacey.  It's  a  test 
case — an  unfortunate  one,  I  grant  you ;  test  cases  are  rarely 
the  ones  a  man  would  choose.  It's  come  to  a  question  of 
whether  business  organized  on  private  capital  can  exist  at 
all.  If  it  can't  we'd  better  know  it  at  once ;  if  it  can  then  it 
will  have  to  be  run  on  the  basis  of  a  decent  adjustment 
between  receipts  and  disbursements." 

Stacey,  quite  unmoved  by  this,  shook  his  head.  "I  don't 
see  how  this  can  be  a  test  case,"  he  observed.  "Suppose 
you  win, — it's  a  paper  victory  only.  Neither  these  men  nor 
any  others  can  work  for  you  permanently  at  a  wage  that 
won't  support  them  and  their  families.  Know  what  I 
think?"  he  demanded,  gazing  sharply  at  the  older  man.  "I 


The  Lonely  Warrior  329 

rather  think  the  whole  thing's  a  threat  held  over  the  head  of 
the  city  council." 

Mr.  Jeffries  laughed.  "That's  shrewd  of  you,  Stacey," 
he  remarked.  "But,  if  so,  you'll  admit  it's  not  very 
successful." 

Stacey,  wary  because  of  the  note  of  flattery,  continued  to 
gaze  at  him.  How  keen  the  man  was!  Not  once  had  he 
said:  "You  young  men  who've  come  back  with  socialistic 
ideas  .  .  ."  He  had  met  Stacey  with  apparent  candor  and 
with  no  touch  of  tolerant  superiority.  His  manner 
proclaimed  equality, — but  perhaps  just  faintly  over- 
proclaimed  it. 

"You  won't  even  consider  yielding,"  Stacey  asked,  "so 
that  these  men  can  support  their  families — now — in  winter?" 

"I  can't,  my  boy.  It's  to  your  credit,  though,  that  you 
take  the  thing  so  much  to  heart.  I  admire  you  for  it." 

The  "my  boy"  and  the  admiration  were  under  the  cir- 
cumstances a  little  too  much  for  Stacey.  The  muscles  of 
his  face  hardened  almost  imperceptibly,  and  he  leaned  back 
pin  his  chair. 

"Then,  Mr.  Jeffries,  I've  got  to  fight  you,"  he  said  coolly. 

The  other's  expression  did  not  alter,  no  glint  of  amuse- 
ment shone  in  his  eyes;  but  he  considered  Stacey  intently. 
"I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  returned  after  a  moment,  "but  I 
guess  I  can  only  say:  Go  to  it!  I  know  it  will  be  a  fair 
fight,  anyway." 

"No,"  said  Stacey,  "it  won't  be.    I  want  to  warn  you." 

The  other's  gaze  sharpened.    "Well?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Mr.  Jeffries,"  Stacey  inquired,  "do  you  remember  a 
young  woman  named  Ethel  Wyatt  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  financier,  his  expression  unchanged. 
"She  was  governess  to  our  children  for  a  time.  There  were 
reasons  which  made  us  let  her  go.  Why  ?" 


33°  The  Lonely  Warrior 

That  last  sentence  was  the  only  hint  of  weakness.  Stacey 
felt  an  evil  exultation.  However,  his  face  was  impassive. 
"I  was  told  in  confidence,"  he  observed  quietly,  "that  she 
left  of  her  own  accord  because  you  hid  in  her  bathroom  and 
otherwise  persecuted  her." 

A  faint  color  showed  on  Mr.  Jeffries'  high  cheek-bones, 
and  his  eyes  hardened  until  they  became  like  polished  steel, 
but  when  he  spoke  his  tone  was  quiet  and  firm,  as  before. 
Stacey  reluctantly  admired  him. 

"That's  not  a  pretty  story,"  he  said.  "I  shan't  even 
trouble  to  deny  it.  May  I  ask  why  you  repeat  it  to 
me?" 

"Because  I  intend  to  use  it  against  you." 

Mr.  Jeffries  considered  him  fixedly.  "That  seemed  to  be 
what  you  were  driving  at.  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I 
understood  your  meaning  correctly.  We'll  waive  all  the 
moral  aspects  of  such  blackmail — " 

"Yes,  let's !"  said  Stacey  calmly. 

Mr.  Jeffries  frowned  at  the  insolence  of  the  interruption. 
Only  from  a  certain  tautness  in  his  face  could  Stacey  per- 
ceive that  he  was  very  angry,  so  well  did  he  keep  himself 
under  control.  "Do  you  really  fancy,"  he  demanded,  his 
words  like  sharp  staccato  taps  of  a  hammer,  "that  any  one, 
any  one  of  any  account,  in  this  city  is  going  to  believe  such 
a  story?" 

"Not  officially,  of  course,"  Stacey  replied.  "Being  the 
power  you  are,  Mr.  Jeffries,  you  could  go  out  in  the  street 
and  commit  publicly  almost  any  crime  short  of  murder,  and 
officially  even  the  witnesses  wouldn't  admit  that  you'd  done 
it.  But  privately  most  people  will  love  to  believe  such  a 
story." 

"Do  you  believe  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Stacey  indifferently,  "or  I  wouldn't  use  it. 
But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  the  slightest  interest  in 


The  Lonely  JVarrior  331 

the  story.  It  doesn't  even  amuse  me.  I  merely  see  it  as  a 
possible  weapon." 

Mr.  Jeffries  continued  to  gaze  at  him  sharply.  "Do  you 
know  anything  about  this  young  woman,  Ethel  Wyatt?" 
he  inquired  presently,  his  voice  frigid. 

Stacey  was  wary.    "A  little,"  he  returned. 

"Then  you  doubtless  know  the  sort  of  person  she  has 
proved  to  be.  She  has  been  the  mistress  of  Ames  Price, 
among  others." 

"Well?" 

"You  would  take  the  word  of  a  harlot  in  the  matter  of 
this  libellous—" 

"Oh,"  Stacey  exclaimed  scornfully,  "let's  not  go  in  for 
rhetoric!  There's  no  dictograph  in  the  room.  Let's  not 
be  benevolent  millionaire  and  returned  hero  deserving  well 
of  his  country !" 

"Very  well!"  snapped  Mr.  Jeffries,  his  cheeks  slightly 
flushed.  "You'd  take  this  girl's  word  against  mine?" 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Jeffries  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  merely  regarding 
Stacey  intently.  "How  you  do  dislike  me,  don't  you?"  he 
asked  then.  He  had  quite  recovered  his  calm. 

Stacey  raised  his  eyebrows.  "That  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it,"  he  remarked  coldly. 

"Hasn't  it?  You  can  say  that  and  still  be  ready  to  smirch 
my  good  name  and  make  my  wife  miserable  ?" 

Stacey  drew  himself  up.  "What's  a  man's  smirched  name 
or  a  weeping  wife  compared  with  a  man  who's  under- 
nourished and  a  wife  who  can't  buy  proper  cl'othes  for  her 
children  ?"  he  demanded  bitterly.  "It's  useless !  You  can't 
see  why  I'm  doing  this  thing.  For  you  I  must  have  some 
other  motive.  Well,  I  haven't." 

"And  you're  going  to  use  this  story  unless  I  give  in  on  the 
strike — is  that  the  idea  ?" 


332  The  Lonely  Warrior 

"Yes.  I  don't  say  I'm  going  to  throw  it  around  broad- 
cast. Perhaps.  I  shall  anyway  tell  it  to  my  father.  If  you 
are  a  man  and  not  just  a  popular  legend,  that  ought  to  hit 
you  almost  as  hard  as  the  other  thing.  Because  if  I  were 
you  and  had  a  friend  like  my  father,  I  should  want  to 
keep  him." 

For  the  first  time  Mr.  Jeffries  withdrew  his  eyes  from  his 
enemy  and  looked  away,  frowning.  "You'll  hurt  him  a  good 
deal,"  he  said  quietly.  "When  are  you  going  to  tell  him?" 

"To-morrow  morning.  I  won't  spoil  his  evening,  any- 
way." Stacey  got  up. 

"Just  a  minute !"  said  the  older  man  sharply.  "I  suppose 
you  understand  that  you  force  me  to  play  the  same  kind  of 
game.  I  shall  of  course  endeavor  to  learn  where — and  how 
— you  have  known  this  girl,  since  I've  no  doubt  you  got  the 
story  direct  from  her." 

"Oh,  I  should,"  said  Stacey  indifferently.  "It  might 
prove  discreditable.  Also  I  should  fancy  that  what  I  am 
doing  is  a  criminal  offence.  I  am  really  sorry  for  one 
thing, — to  have  taken  up  so  much  of  your  time,"  he  added 
sincerely. 

Mr.  Jeffries  considered  him  grimly.  "You  have  peculiar 
compunctions,"  he  observed. 

Stacey  went  back  to  work.  He  was  not  particularly  satis- 
fied with  the  interview  and  he  felt  rather  soiled  mentally. 
The  threat  of  the  story,  not  the  story  itself,  was  what  he 
had  wanted  to  use.  Once  set  going,  the  story  would  only  be 
punishment,  and  he  was  not  at  all  interested  in  punishment. 

But  that  evening  during  dinner  Mr.  Carroll  was  called 
to  the  'phone,  and  when  he  returned  he  was  jubilant. 

"Good  news,  Stacey!"  he  cried,  slapping  his  son  on  the 
back.  "Colin  Jeffries  has  come  around.  Said  you  came  up 
to  see  him  and  repeated  the  things  I'd  said,  told  him  how 
strongly  I  felt  about  it  (why  didn't  you  tell  me?),  and  aft- 


The  Lonely  Warrior  333 

erward  he  got  to  thinking  things  over  till  at  last  he  said: 
'To  hell  with  principles!  It's  been  my  experience  that  if 
Edward  Carroll  wants  a  thing  done  the  thing  must  be  right.' 
The  strike's  off.  All  be  in  the  papers  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Carroll  settled  himself  again  in  his  chair  and  beamed. 
As  for  Catherine,  she  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  then  suddenly 
looked  across  at  Stacey.  But  he  avoided  her  eyes.  How- 
ever, though  he  felt  smirched,  he  also  felt  a  fierce  exultation. 

Mr.  Carroll  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "Another  thing 
Colin  said,  Stacey,"  he  remarked  proudly,  "was  that  you 
were  wasted  on  a  job  like  architecture,  that  you  had — let's 
see ! — a  concentrated  directness  of  purpose  that  would  have 
got  you  most  anywhere  in  business.  I  was  to  be  sure  to 
tell  you  that." 

Stacey  had  looked  up  at  this,  startled.  By  Jove !  the  man 
was  a  good  sport !  Stacey  was  filled  with  admiration,  and 
it  struck  him  that  he  had  been  making  Edwards'  mistake, 
had  been  seeing  Colin  Jeffries  as  a  symbol,  not  just  as  an 
individual.  Always  this  haze  of  legend  hanging  about  every- 
thing !  You  had  to  tear  it  off. 

Later,  when  he  had  gone  upstairs  to  bed,  he  fell  to  medi- 
tating on  the  whole  affair.  How  incongruously  people  and 
things  were  tangled!  The  great  street-railway  strike  had 
come  to  an  abrupt  end  because  a  year  ago  he,  Stacey  Carroll, 
had  run  off  to  a  disreputable  road-house  with  a  strange 
reckless  girl. 

The  entire  front  page  of  the  paper  next  morning  was 
occupied  by  Mr.  Jeffries'  statement.  It  was  a  masterpiece. 
It  began  by  recapitulating  the  facts — the  doubled  and  tripled 
cost  of  material,  the  city  council's  refusal  to  allow  a  ten- 
cent  fare,  the  company's  dilemma, — to  the  accompaniment 
of  persuasive  figures.  The  beau  geste  that  followed  was 
all  the  more  effective  for  their  convincingness.  There  were 
other  things  than  gain  in  this  world.  There  were  human 


334  The  Lonely  Warrior 

beings.  We  were  our  brothers' keepers.  (Stacey  thought  of 
Edwards'  remark,  and  grinned.)  We  owed  them  a  right 
to  a  decent  existence  even  at  the  cost  of  sacrifice  to  our- 
selves. A  corporation  was  not  a  soulless  machine.  It  had 
not,  save  in  theory,  any  existence  of  its  own.  (Stacey 
nodded  approval.  Good  point!)  It  was  simply  a  group  of 
individual's  banded  together,  in  accordance  with  the  law, 
for  the  prosecution  of  a  legitimate  business  and  for  the 
public  service.  The  Vernon  Street-Railway  Company  was 
such  a  group ;  and  the  members  of  this  group  now,  after  a 
careful  investigation  of  conditions,  made  by  themselves  and 
by  disinterested  friends  (here  complimentary  mention  was 
made  of  Mr.  Carroll's  generous  initiative),  felt  that  they 
could  not  at  present,  with  harsh  winter  already  here,  require 
their  employees  to  live  on  a  reduced  wage.  This  decision 
was  taken  though  it  meant  not  even  a  nominal  profit  but  a 
considerable  monthly  deficit  for  the  company.  Every  effort 
at  retrenchment  would  be  made.  Economy  would  be  rigid. 
The  service  might  fall  off  slightly,  but  the  public  were 
prayed  to  be  lenient,  remembering  that  the  company  was 
failing  in  its  business  duty  in  order  to  accomplish  a  larger 
human  duty. 

There  were  also  editorials. 

Stacey  felt  no  disdain, — only  amusement  and  admiration. 
Mr.  Jeffries'  telephoned  message  of  last  evening  had  re- 
vealed the  man  as  not  afraid  to  face  the  truth  squarely. 
He  might  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  magniloquent  lies ;  that 
was  because  they  served  his  purpose.  At  least,  he  was  not 
himself  deceived  by  them. 

Edwards  was  waiting  for  Stacey  at  the  office.  "By  the 
Lord !"  he  cried,  waving  the  paper  in  one  hand  and  wringing 
Stacey's  hand  with  the  other,  "you  did  it !  Damned  if  you 
didn't !  Now  tell  me :  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"Why,  I  just  emphasized  the  things  father  had  already 


The  Lonely  Warrior  335 

said  and  pointed  out  how  much  my  father's  loyalty  to  Jef- 
fries meant,"  said  Stacey  innocently. 

Edwards  stared  at  him.  "The  hell  you  did!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Carroll,  you  did  some  sort  of  dirty  work — 
awfully  dirty  work,  I'll  bet !"  And  he  grinned  with  delight. 

"Now  look  here,  Edwards,"  said  Stacey  soberly,  "if  you 
ever  suggest  that  to  any  one  else,  or  if  you  even  let  on  that 
I  had  anything  to  do  in  this  business  at  all,  you'll  make 
things  awfully  unpleasant  for  me.  Honestly!  That's  all 
I  can  tell  you." 

"Well,  I  won't,  then.    You  can  take  my  word  for  it." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Stacey,  dropping  into  a  chair  and  light- 
ing a  cigarette. 

"Can't.  Can't  possibly.  I've  got  to  get  to  work.  Precious 
little  I've  done  these  last  days." 

Nevertheless,  Edwards  lingered.  His  jubilant  mood  had 
passed  now,  and  he  looked  at  Stacey  with  a  kind  of  awk- 
ward wistfulness. 

"I  say,  Carroll!"  he  blurted  out  finally,  "you  remember 
that  night  of  the  Legion  meeting  a  year  and  more  ago?" 
Stacey  nodded.  "Well,  then  I  felt  the  better  man  of  us  two 
— no,  I  don't  mean  better — saner,  perhaps.  You  were" — he 
puzzled — "sort  of  twisted." 

("Twisted,"  thought  Stacey.    Again  that  word.) 

Edwards  continued  after  a  moment,  but  with  a  shyness 
that  in  his  rough  rugged  personality  was  appealing.  "Now 
you've — got  something,  some  solution  for  things.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  exactly,  but  there's  something.  I  just 
wanted  you  to  know  that  I  recognized  it — that's  all." 

"That's  awfully  decent  of  you,"  returned  Stacey  quietly, 
"but  I  don't  think  I've  got  anything  really — any  solution,  I 
mean.  Perhaps  less  than  ever." 

Edwards  shook  his  head.  "Tell  you  what  I  think  it  is," 
he  observed.  "You've  come  to  see  people  as  on  a  wrong 


336  The  Lonely  Warrior 

track — struggling  hard  for  things  that  don't  count,  food  and 
clothes  more  than  they  need,  automobiles,  fine  houses,  all 
things  of  existence  that  don't  get  them  anywhere, — totally 
without  desire  for  life.  That's  an  easy  enough  point  of 
view  to  take  intellectually,  but  you  feel  it,  really  live  it  your- 
self. You  live  in  a  palace,  but  you'd  as  soon  live  in  a  hut. 
Because  you  don't  care  any  more  for  those  futile  things. 
Except,"  he  added,  "when  they're  the  bare  essential's — as  in 
this  strike.  Then  you  turn  hard  as  flint  in  your  will  to  get 
them — for  other  people.  Thanks,  you  know.  Thanks  aw- 
fully !  'Bye !"  He  stumped  out,  waving  his  hand  as  though 
to  ward  off  an  answer. 

Stacey  was  touched.  Edwards  was  an  idealist,  for  all  his 
rude  indomitable  spirit  and  his  contact  with  the  rough  work- 
ing world ;  Stacey  knew  that.  Yet  it  was  pleasant  to  have  a 
friend  who  thought  better  of  you  than  you  deserved. 

There  was  one  corollary  to  the  strike.  Four  days  later  a 
grateful  city  council  voted  to  allow  a  flat  ten-cent  fare.  So 
now  every  one  was  satisfied— except  the  public,  who  had 
exactly  what  they  merited,  Stacey  thought.  He  laughed 
heartily,  wondering  a  little  whether  Colin  Jeffries  had  not 
all  along  counted  on  this  possibility. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

CHRISTMAS  a  year  ago  had  been  a  ghastly  festival  for 
Stacey,  that  he  had  gone  through  with  somehow,  his  face 
stiffened  into  a  fixed  smile,  his  voice  saying  mechanical 
things,  while  within  him  only  one  emotion  had  been  alive — 
the  fierce,  dizzy,  dangerous  craving  to  get  away,  from  this, 
from  everything  and  every  one.  And  it  could  not  have  been 
much  gayer  for  the  others.  Mr.  Carroll  had  watched  his 
son  apprehensively,  Jimmy  Prout,  too,  had  fallen  below  his 
customary  debonair  form,  and  even  Julie,  who,  though  more 
intelligent  than  people  gave  her  credit  for  being,  was  not 
subtle,  had  a  grave  anxious  air.  Also  the  thought  of  Phil's 
recent  death  and  of  Catherine  grieving  in  that  lonely  squalid 
house  hung  over  all  of  them.  Only  Junior  had  been  quite 
himself.  He  had  in  truth  been  the  life  of  the  party. 

Christmas  this  year  was  very  different — Christmas  Eve, 
especially.  There  was  not  quite  the  old  exuberance;  that 
could  never  return  in  this  grayer  sadder  world, — or  perhaps 
it  was  merely  that  Julie  and  Stacey  and  Jimmie  were 
grown-up  now.  But  there  was  a  genial  friendly  warmth  in 
the  atmosphere.  And  then  there  were  three  children  this 
year.  They  chattered  and  laughed  and  stamped  impatiently 
in  the  long  hall  that  led  from  the  library  to  the  big  drawing- 
room  where  the  tree  was  being  prepared,  and  when  at 
last  the  drawing-room  doors  were  thrown  open  and  the 
brilliant  tree  was  displayed  all  three  gave  a  howl  of  joy 
that  would  have  satisfied  even  Dickens. 

Mr.  Carroll  was  extraordinarily  good  on  such  occasions. 
He  delivered  the  presents — not  too  slowly,  not  too  rapidly — 
from  the  great  pile  about  the  base  of  the  tree,  with  a  pleas- 

337 


33 8  The  Lonely  Warrior 

ant  easy  grace  and  sometimes  a  little  speech.  His  own  gifts 
he  laid  aside  in  a  corner,  to  open  later.  They  made  an 
imposing  heap,  too;  for  many  people  outside  of  the  family 
delighted  to  remember  Mr.  Carroll.  Women,  especially. 
He  had  great  success  with  women  and  remained  quite  un- 
spoiled by  it,  accepting  it  with  apparent  unconsciousness,  or 
as  a  matter  of  course,  as  an  aristocrat  accepts  his  position. 
Old  wives  of  old  friends,  young  wives  of  friends'  sons, 
daughters  of  friends,  spinsters  to  whom  he  had  been  kind, — 
he  stirred  all  of  them  to  liking.  Perhaps  it  was  Mr.  Car- 
roll's good  looks  or  his  grace  of  manner  or  his  goodness  of 
heart  or  his  youthful  spirit  or  all  of  them  together — Stacey 
did  not  know;  but  he  recognized  his  father's  fascination 
and  looked  with  affectionate  amusement  at  the  growing 
pile  of  prettily  wrapped  gifts.  But  it  did  not  occur  to 
Stacey  that  he  himself  had  inherited  that  attractiveness  to 
women;  for  he  had  inherited  the  unconsciousness  of  it 
along  with  the  trait. 

The  three  boys  were  making  a  tremendous  racket,  Julie 
was  flushed  and  talkative,  Jimmy  Prout,  a  colored  paper  cap 
on  his  good-looking  head,  was  lolling  easily  in  his  chair  and 
drawing  discordant  wails  from  a  toy  accordion.  Only 
Catherine  seemed  subdued.  She  sat  near  Julie,  whom  she 
liked  warmly,  and  smiled  and  spoke  quietly  at  times,  but 
there  was  a  faint  tremul'ousness  about  her  lips  and  a  sensi- 
tiveness, as  to  pain,  in  the  look  of  her  eyes,  that  Stacey,  who 
caught  quickly  the  slightest  change  in  Catherine,  perceived 
clearly.  Perhaps  it  was  her  shyness  in  all  this  confusion. 
Stacey  did  not  know.  She  had  not  seemed  quite  herself 
of  late. 

The  party  broke  up  finally.  Julie  took  her  husband  and 
her  delirious  son  home,  and  Mr.  Carroll  and  Stacey  were 
left  with  Catherine  and  her  two  boys.  Jackie,  exhausted 
with  happiness,  sat  on  his  mother's  lap  and  played  sleepily 


The  Lonely  Warrior  339 

with  a  mechanical  mouse;  Carter  leaned  against  Stacey's 
knee;  Mr.  Carroll  sat,  relaxed,  in  a  chair  near  his  gifts, 
which  he  showed  no  eagerness  to  open.  The  tree  was  life- 
less, all  its  little  colored  candles  extinguished,  and  the  floor 
was  strewn  with  ribbon  and  tissue-paper.  The  room  held 
the  quiet  sadness  that  broods  over  a  festival  that  is  finished. 

Catherine  spoke  first,  setting  Jackie  on  his  feet  and  rising. 
"Thank  you,  Mr.  Carroll1,  for  everything,"  she  murmured. 
"I  cannot — express  how  good  you  have  been.  And  you, 
Stacey." 

The  men  had  risen,  too.  "Why,  my  dear  girl,"  Mr.  Car- 
roll returned,  "you've  given  us  far  more  happiness  than 
we  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  must  take  the  boys  up  now,"  she 
said.  "I've  promised,  as  it's  Christmas  Eve,  to  stay  with 
them  just  for  once  while  they  undress." 

"You'll  come  back,  Catherine?"  Stacey  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  without  looking  at  him,  "I'll 
come  back." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Stacey  gaily,  when  he  was  left  with  his 
father,  "aren't  you  going  to  open  all  those  bundles  ?" 

"Presently !  Presently !"  Mr.  Carroll  replied.  "I'll  carry 
them  up  to  my  study." 

"Oh,  I  say!"  Stacey  protested,  "I  want  to  see  what 
you've  got." 

His  father  shook  his  head.  "There's  something  better 
than  that  waiting  for  us,"  he  remarked,  with  a  smile.  "In 
the  dining-room.  A  bottle  of  Pol  Roger  and  some  sand- 
wiches and  so  forth.  Come  along !" 

"Well,  rather!"  Stacey  exclaimed.  "What  a  happy 
thought!  I'm  starved,  too, — to  say  nothing  of  my  thirst 
You  never  eat  anything  at  dinner  in  the  excitement  of  this 
sort  of  thing." 

He  wondered  a  bit  that  his  father  had  not  suggested  their 


34°  The  Lonely  Warrior 

waiting  for  Catherine,  then  understood  suddenly  that  this 
was  a  handsome  tribute  to  himself,  an  effort  to  express 
wordlessly  that  they  two,  father  and  son,  were  close  friends 
who  needed  no  one  else  to  help  them  achieve  intimacy.  But 
the  first  thing  Mr.  Carroll  did  was  to  prepare  carefully  and 
set  aside  a  plate  of  good  things  to  eat.  "For  Catherine,"  he 
explained.  Then,  with  a  boyish  smile  at  Stacey,  he  took 
the  bottle  from  the  cooler,  uncorked  it,  and  poured  the  hiss- 
ing pale-gold  wine  into  the  delicate  flaring  glasses. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  to  violate  the  laws  of  your  country 
in  this  way?"  asked  Stacey. 

"I'm  not  doing  that,"  Mr.  Carroll  returned.  "When  it 
comes  to  whiskey  I  do  some  considerable  violating,  but 
this  champagne  has  been  in  my  cellar  for  years.  To  your 
health,  son !" 

"To  yours,  sir !"  Stacey  replied  cordially.  They  touched 
glasses  and  drank. 

They  talked,  like  the  good  friends  they  were,  in  an  easy 
desultory  way  while  they  sipped  the  wine  and  ate  a  little. 
But  all  at  once  Mr.  Carroll  became  silent,  then  suddenly 
looked  across  at  his  son. 

"Stacey,"  he  said,  "don't  be  a  fool !" 

It  was  an  odd  speech,  but  the  oddest  thing  about  it  was  the 
tone,  which  was  not  rough  like  the  words,  but  pleading, 
almost  cajoling.  Mr.  Carroll  might  have  been  saying:  "Do 
me  a  favor,  won't  you  ?" 

Stacey  grinned.    "Try  not  to,"  he  said.    "Explain." 

But  his  father  was  filling  Stacey's  glass,  and,  when  he  had 
finished  doing  this,  took  more  time  than  seemed  necessary 
to  replace  the  bottle  in  the  cooler  and  adjust  the  napkin 
about  its  neck.  And  even  then  he  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  with  an  obvious  effort,  and  not 
looking  at  his  son,  "I  mean  to  say — why  the  devil  don't  you 
ask  Catherine  to  marry  you?" 


The  Lonely  Warrior  341 

Stacey,  who  had  lifted  his  glass,  started  so  that  some  of 
the  yellow  liquid  spilled  over  upon  the  table-cloth.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  amazed  and  shocked. 

"Why,  sir,  I — "  he  stammered,  then  broke  off  helplessly. 

"Where  will  you  find  any  one  who's  shown  herself  as 
good  and  sweet  and  courageous?"  Mr.  Carroll  went  on, 
almost  belligerently,  as  though  Catherine's  merits  were 
in  question. 

"Nowhere,"  Stacey  replied  soberly.  It  was  abhorrent  to 
him  to  see  his  deepest  emotion,  which  he  hardly  admitted 
even  to  himself,  spilled  over  the  table,  like  the  wine. 

"Well,  then?" 

"There  is— Phil,"  Stacey  muttered. 

"Phil  is  dead,"  Mr.  Carroll  answered  gravely.  "We  have 
all  felt  his  loss.  He  was  a  noble  character.  And  you  were 
his  closest  friend — " 

"Just  for  that—" 

"Just  for  that  he  would  trust  Catherine  to  you  gladly. 
It  woul'd  not  be  he  to  stand  between  you." 

"No,"  Stacey  said  in  a  stifled  voice,  "I  suppose  not.  It  is 
not  Phil,  but —  Please,  sir !"  he  begged. 

His  father  nodded.  "Pretty  cheeky  of  me,  I  admit,  son," 
he  said  gruffly.  "Wouldn't  blame  you  if  you'd  grown  angry, 
but  you  understand  how  I  mean  it — er — " 

"That's  all  right,  dad.    I  know,"  Stacey  replied  quickly. 

They  finished  their  supper  in  an  awkward  silence. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  rising,  "I  suppose  I'd  better  get 
those  presents  of  mine  and  open  them.  There'll  be  a  lot 
of  notes  to  write  in  reply." 

Stacey  followed  him  back  to  the  littered  drawing-room, 
mechanically  almost,  because  he  did  not  know  what  else  to 
do.  "Want  any  help,  sir  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  his  father,  his  arms  full  of  bundles. 
"I'll  be  down  again  after  a  while."  And  he  went  out. 


342  The  Lonely  Warrior 

Stacey,  left  alone,  stared  after  him,  then  walked  restlessly 
down  the  hall'  to  the  library.  It  was  painful  to  him  that  his 
father  should  have  divined  his  feelings.  But  this  was  not 
the  worst.  The  worst  was  that,  if  his  father  had  under- 
stood him,  so,  assuredly,  had  Catherine.  This  grieved 
Stacey  deeply.  He  had  been  so  careful,  he  thought ;  he  had 
never  meant  to  let  her  see  what  he  felt  for  her.  But  she  did 
know.  Of  course  she  knew!  How  stupid  he  had  been! 
No  wonder  he  found  her  changed !  He  could  see  it  all  now. 
His  father,  it  seemed,  believed  that  Catherine  could  care 
for  Stacey  as  he  for  her ;  but  Stacey  knew  better.  She  was 
shocked  and  saddened  by  her  discovery,  uncertain  what  to 
do — whether  to  go  away  or  not,  generously  anxious  not  to 
give  pain,  all  her  peace  of  mind  gone.  Poor  Catherine! 
Stacey  was  furious  with  himself.  But  this  did  no  good — 
not  the  least  bit.  He  shook  off  his  anger  impatiently.  What 
was  to  be  done  about  it?  That  was  the  point.  How  with- 
out putting  things  into  words — which  always  made  them 
worse — was  he  to  let  Catherine  know  that  she  could  count 
on  him,  that  he  would  be  merely  the  friend  she  wanted  him 
to  be?  He  was  puzzling  over  it  when  she  entered  the  room. 

She  looked  startled  when  she  saw  that  he  was  there 
alone,  and  paused  just  inside  the  door  as  though  half  in- 
clined to  retreat.  It  hurt  Stacey  keenly  that  she  should  be 
afraid  of  him — and  with  reason.  He  had  risen  and 
stood  facing  her,  but  across  the  room  from  her. 

"Won't  you— come  in?"  he  asked.  "Or  would  you  rather 
go  somewhere  else — the  dining-room?  There's  luncheon 
ready  for  you  in  there." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  answered,  "and  I'm  not 
hungry."  But  she  did  not  come  farther  into  the  room,  and, 
though  she  smiled  waveringly,  Stacey  saw  the  expression  of 
pain — or  perhaps  fear — in  her  eyes. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  343 

"Catherine,"  he  began  in  a  1'ow  voice,  after  a  moment, 
"why  is  it  so  hard — and  dangerous — to  be  frank?" 

"Ought  it  to  be  either  ?"  she  replied  gently.  She  looked  at 
him  steadily  as  she  spoke,  but  the  expression  on  her  face 
was  odd  and  troubled.  There  was  compassion  in  it, 
though;  he  felt  that  strongly.  Of  course!  A  generous 
emotion  would  always  be  dominant  in  Catherine. 

He  came  a  little  nearer  to  her.  "Catherine,"  he  said,  "I 
have  not  meant  ever  to—"  then  broke  off.  It  was  worse  to 
say  things  than  to  leave  them  unspoken,  and  she  would  un- 
derstand them  anyway.  He  tried  desperately  to  call  the 
whole  subject  off.  "Oh,"  he  remarked,  with  a  positively 
sepulchral  gaiety,  "Christmas  is  too  emotional !  We're  good 
friends,  aren't  we  ?  and  that's  all  that  matters." 

But  she  continued  to  gaze  at  him  in  that  same  odd  manner. 
The  very  pose  of  her  body  made  her  seem  like  a  creature 
at  bay. 

And  suddenly  Stacey's  thoughts  were  swept  away  like  so 
much  rubbish  by  a  wave  of  sure  emotion.  He  took  a  step 
toward  Catherine,  stretching  out  his  hands  impulsively,  and 
all  at  once  she  was  in  his  arms,  trembling  and  weeping,  her 
lips  raised  to  his. 

"Ah,  Stacey,  didn't  you  know  I  loved  you?"  she  mur- 
mured presently.  "Your  father  knew." 

"Wh-when?" 

"Since  the  evening  you  quarreled." 

"Oh,"  Stacey  cried,  "was  it — for  love  that  you  de- 
fended me?" 

"You— might  call  it  that." 

She  drew  a  little  away  from  him  now  and  made  him  sit 
down  beside  her  on  the  divan. 

"I  think,"  she  said  gently,  holding  his  hand  against  her 
cheek,  "that  men  can  hardly  ever  think  in  facts ;  they  must 


344  The  Lonely  Warrior 

think  in  patterns ;  and  anything  that  will  not  fit  into  a  pat- 
tern they  find  wrong.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
have  always  loved  you,  Stacey,  always!  It  was  not  dis- 
loyalty. I  am  sure  Phil  knew.  I  loved  you  and  him.  It  was 
different.  I  can't  make  you  understand." 

Stacey,  very  shaken  and  confused,  and  not  understanding 
anything  save  (humbly)  that  this  was  giving  on  a  scale  be- 
yond what  was  credible,  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her 
hot  face. 

"Oh,  Stacey,"  she  murmured,  "I  feel  so — immodest !" 

"Aha!"  he  interrupted,  laughing  unsteadily,  "now  who's 
thinking  not  like  an  individual  but  like  the  whole  female 
sex  ?"  And  at  this  she,  too,  laughed  a  little. 

They  sat  there,  close  together,  scarcely  speaking.  But  it 
came  over  Stacey  in  a  rush  that  in  his  love  for  Catherine 
there  was  a  touch  of  what  he  had  felt  for  Marian  and  some- 
thing more — far  more!  Truth,  fact.  It  was  complete. 
This  was  reality.  There  was  nothing  left  out. 

"Catherine,"  he  cried,  "you  are  not  only  a  grown  woman ; 
you  are  a  little  girl,  too.  And  so  I'm  not  afraid  of  you  any 
longer — I  always  was,  a  little,  you  know.  Now  I'm  not." 

"That's  odd,"  she  said  shyly,  "because  I — have  also  been 
afraid  of  you,  a  little." 

"But  really?  On  account  of  my  temper,  I  suppose. 
You're  right.  I've  a  rotten  temper,"  he  said  remorsefully. 

She  smiled.  "No,  not  on  account  of  your  temper.  I 
think,"  she  explained,  grave  now,  "it  was  the — the  serenity 
you  have  achieved,  Stacey  dear." 

He  drew  away  to  stare  at  her,  but  before  he  could  speak 
the  door  of  the  room  opened  and  Mr.  Carroll  entered,  then 
paused  abruptly. 

Catherine  saw  him  first  and  hurried  to  his  side,  clasping 
his  hand  in  both  of  hers  and  laying  her  head  against  his 
shoulder. 


The  Lonely  Warrior  345 

Mr.  Carroll  reached  out  his  other  hand  to  grasp  Stacey's 
and  gazed  at  his  son  with  shining  eyes. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Carroll,  do  you  mind?"  Catherine  cried  softly. 

"Mind,  my  dear !"  he  replied.  "Isn't  it  exactly  what  I've 
hoped  for?"  And  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  cheek,  then 
made  her  sit  down  beside  him  on  the  divan,  while  Stacey 
stood  a  little  way  off,  looking  at  them. 

"Er — where  are  you  thinking  of  living?"  Mr.  Carroll 
asked  presently  in  a  carefully  matter-of-fact  voice,  while  he 
slowly  clipped  off  the  end  of  a  cigar. 

Stacey  flashed  a  swift  questioning  glance  at  Catherine. 
"Why,"  he  remarked  then  deliberately,  "what  with  the 
scarcity  of  houses  and  all,  we  were  rather  thinking  of  stay- 
ing on  here." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  "if  you  will,  you  will,  I  sup- 
pose." But  he  had  paused  to  light  his  cigar  before  speaking, 
and  it  had  taken  him  rather  longer  than  usual. 


THE  END* 


A     000128941     2 


